Fear and Desperation
by cardemon
Summary: During an encounter with Negan and his men, Abigail willingly resigns herself to him in a desperate attempt to stay alive. Now, she must try to earn her keep at the Sanctuary while secretly planning an escape and trying to avoid the advances of Negan, who intends to take her claim of doing anything to survive quite literally. Negan/OC.
1. Chapter 1

**Fear and Desperation**

Chapter 1

* * *

It had been a hideous blur of throat-constricting fear and adrenaline that had managed to keep her just out of their reach. She remembered the burn in her chest and the heaviness of her legs as she ran along the desolate road, their shouts lingering behind her and getting closer as night fell.

She'd been foolish to try and steal the backpack from their truck, but she hadn't been able to help herself; the desperation had been unbearable. Her supplies had run out days ago, and she'd broken her flashlight when confronting a small group of the undead. She'd managed to escape, but just barely.

Combined with the starvation that wrought her stomach into knots, Abigail was desperate. But she'd been sloppy – careless, even.

She'd stumbled upon this group of people by accident shortly after her most recent scrape with the undead. After getting lost, she finally found her way back to the main road, and opted to stick close to it at night until she came across somewhere safe to stay and rest. While moving through the thick shrubbery, she'd heard the truck coming from down the road and kept to the dense brush, fear pumping through her chest. She was weak, tired, and laughably unarmed; she couldn't afford to get caught. As she waited for the last man to leave the truck, Abigail moved between the trees, preparing for the right moment to run over, grab the nearest backpack, and then run back into the woods. She didn't care what was in it, she just needed tools and supplies – hopefully some she could trade for others.

Unfortunately, she hadn't counted on them leaving a scout nearby to keep an eye on the truck. That was her first mistake.

Abigail had darted out of the bushes, carefully hopped into the back of the truck and grabbed the closest pack – but before she could make a run for it, she'd heard a shout, followed by the harrowing pierce of a gun being fired in her direction.

Another had suddenly appeared at her side, grabbing her and throwing her to the ground. She landed gracelessly with a sharp cry, hands immediately balling into fists as she punched and clawed her way out of the man's vice-like grip. More shouts could be heard coming from down the road. With a harsh twist of her torso, Abigail grunted as her elbow connected with something hard.

The wail of pain that followed caused her assailant to release his grip on her, giving Abigail enough time to scramble to her feet and make a run for it, backpack lying forgotten on the desolate road.

For three day's straight, she ran – and for three days straight, they had continued to follow her. No matter where she ran, be it woods or road, they were always there, waiting for her. They were ruthless and they were unrelenting, and Abigail wouldn't slow down, not even for a second.

But even as she ran, and despite her resolve, Abigail knew she couldn't go on for much longer; she was exhausted, famished, and only delaying the inevitable. They were never far away, always lurking at the end of a road or on the edge of a nearby clearing. It would only be a matter of time before they would get tired of waiting, or until her legs gave out; whichever happened first.

Apparently, there was also a third option – wait for something _else_ to bring her down. One of the undead had stumbled out from the woods but Abigail hadn't been fast enough to dodge it. Her hands had managed to grab its shoulders in the nick of time, its teeth gnashing mere inches from her face as they tumbled to the ground.

The struggle had only lasted moments before a single gunshot pierced the air, and the monster had fallen limp.

Briefly, Abigail wished that the bullet had hit her instead.

Hurriedly, she shoved the rotting corpse off and tried to scramble to her feet but the second piercing shout of a gun and the harsh _twang_ of the bullet on the asphalt mere inches from her feet caused Abigail to lose her footing and fall to her knees, hard.

Abigail did not dare make a move.

Unfortunately for her, she was smart enough to realize when to stop fighting.

"Hell, if you ain't the slipperiest little piece of shit I've ever seen."

A voice that would haunt the rest of her days was followed only by the echoing crunch of gravel under a pair of heavy boots. A thick silence had fallen as quickly as the night had, and Abigail blinked through the harsh beams of headlights of the parked truck, heart hammering and blood rushing in her ears.

Fear had reached up and seized her soul with an icy claw and her pupils contracted in terror as the footsteps grew closer, each step so deliberate that she flinched with every crunch that his boot made, and Abigail could feel herself curling, already wilting under the pressure.

But despite her current state, one thing was certain.

They wanted her alive.

The footsteps came to a sudden halt about two feet in front of her, and the silence was so damn near suffocating that Abigail thought she might pass out. She flinched as the tip of a baseball bat found its way to her chin, the barbed wire poking into her skin as her jaw was tilted upward just enough to come face to face with a tall figure clad in a leather jacket.

"Well, well, _well,"_ he crowed humorously, tilting her chin up further until she jerked away in what he perceived as defiance. "Flip me over and fuck me sideways – look at what we have _here,_ gentlemen! Pretty, _and_ she's still got some fight left in her!"

The amused drawl in his tone was enough to make Abigail shiver. Along with the cool breeze that scattered the dead leaves across the road, she only just realized how cold the nights were becoming; all she wore was a sweat-stained dark grey t-shirt, pants, and a pair of boots that had seen better days.

"You," the man said, the edge of the bat coming back into her peripheral vision, "you piece of shit, caused a _heap_ of trouble for such a little thing." He paused. "… I like that about you."

Abigail could feel his gaze burning holes into her skull, but she refused to meet his eyes. He then began to walk once more; the steady _crunch… crunch… crunch_ of the gravel making her eye tick, but she made no move to follow him with her eyes. Instead, Abigail fixed her gaze to the gravel beneath her knees and desperately tried to control her breathing.

" _But,"_ he went on, casually emphasizing the 't', "you broke the nose of one of my best men, and _then_ you tried to steal from me and that just makes me so… damn… angry."

His voice held no evidence of anger, but the frightening steadiness of his tone sent a rush of fear pulsing through her veins. Abigail swallowed thickly as he eventually completed his predatory circle where she kneeled, and with the last ounce of courage she had, she hesitantly looked up to meet his gaze.

Was he going to kill her?

It seemed like a logical possibility, but why chase her for days, wasting time and resources to only kill her in the end? It seemed pointless to drag this out any longer than need be. On the other hand, the man immediately struck her as the cruel type; one that would enjoy relentlessly torturing his food until he grew tired of it.

Abigail flinched as the man knelt down in front of her, bringing his face nearly level with her own and her stomach churned at the sight of the smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes.

The bat once again entered her line of sight, and Abigail's eyes immediately transfixed onto the weapon.

The smile grew wider.

"You see Lucille here?" His voice was soft, though it didn't diminish the frightening power he that practically radiated from him. "Pretty, ain't she? Well, she's just _dyin'_ to make your acquaintance." He then waved the bat from left to right, taking obvious enjoyment in how her eyes followed suit.

"But, lucky for your sorry ass, Lucille is also a stickler for rules. So," he said, standing to his feet, "let's get right to it. Hi, I'm Negan. And you are?"

A moment of silence passed, and Negan clucked his tongue in annoyance. The bat was once again lingering threateningly at her temple.

"Naw, what's the matter, sweetheart? Cat got your tongue?"

A few of the men snickered.

"You know, it's a god damned miracle that I haven't already smeared your fuckin' brain from one side of this godforsaken road to the other, so you'd better give me an answer in the next three seconds or so help me God, I will—"

"—A-Abigail," she croaked.

Negan abruptly stopped before he barked out a laugh. "Well, what do you know, fellas – the little lady _can_ talk! And such a pretty name, too." He then tapped the bat against her temple as a chorus of laughter rang out, and Abigail flinched away. "Ain't as pretty as Lucille, though."

Negan then swung Lucille up onto his shoulder. "So, _Abigail,_ let me make this as damn clear as I possibly can, all right? And please—do not make me repeat myself a second time; Lucille does not have as much patience as I do."

Abigail shivered as Negan briefly bit his bottom lip, a cruel smirk peeling across his hardened face.

"Now, I did say I liked you, didn't I?" Negan laughed. "But I don't say shit like that for the laughs, sweetheart, so you have exactly five seconds to dazzle me, my dear, sweet Abby – prove to me, _and_ to Lucille, why I shouldn't beat the holy Hell out of you right here and leave your sorry ass for the buzzards."

Lucille was then pointed directly between her eyes as Negan began to count.

"Five."

Survival came first.

"Four."

She just needed to survive.

"Three."

But then again, even if she could convince him that she had some skills of value, who was to say that they wouldn't put her to… other uses?

Negan adjusted his grip on Lucille.

"Two…"

"—d-doctor, I'm a _doctor!"_ she whimpered.

"Woah-oh- _oh!"_ Negan bellowed, his deep laugh echoing loudly. "A _doctor_ , you say? _"_

Abigail nodded furiously, eyes squeezed shut, shoulders shaking and wrought with panic.

Negan brought Lucille down, cocked his jaw to the side and clucked his tongue. "Shit, but we already got one of those, sweetheart. And he's a pretty good one, too. Unless…" He then gave his chin a contemplative rub, "you can prove it to me?"

With a click of his fingers, a man stepped forward, and Abigail's breath hitched as he pulled out a gun from the waistband of his pants. He handed it to Negan, who immediately aimed it straight for her.

"Simon, get me the first-aid kit."

 _Crack!_

The shot echoed throughout the clearing, and Abigail doubled over in pain as the bullet embedded itself deep into her upper left arm, forehead crashing hard onto the gravel as she gracelessly slumped on her side. She howled against the pain, throat ripping, but she screamed harder as she clutched her arm. A dull _thunk_ came from her left, and a harsh jut of Negan's boot sent the bag containing the first aid kit into her injured arm.

"I don't have all day, sweetheart. Lucille is mighty thirsty today, and she tells me that your blood smells so damn good, so I'd hurry it up if I were you."

There was no way around this.

Negan was testing her on purpose, and they both knew it. The instinct to survive was pulsing beneath her chest, competing with the white-hot burning in her left arm while a fresh wave of adrenaline thrummed through her veins.

This was her last chance to prove herself.

With a great effort, Abigail pulled herself up and reached out for the bag, pushing through the pain and fumbling around for the familiar shape of the first-aid kit. Everyone watched on in silence as she eventually pulled the box from the bag and flicked the latch open.

Gritting her teeth, she pulled herself up into a sitting position, free hand trembling and sucking in breath after ragged breath. Securing her fingers around a set of pliers, Abigail held her breath as she inserted the tip into her arm, flicking the bullet out with a shaky turn of her wrist.

Abigail choked out a sob of relief as the light _clink_ of the metal greeted the ground. Negan gave a low whistle.

"Well, would you look at _that!_ Those are some mighty big brass balls you have there, little lady! Shit, I must say, I am im _pressed."_ Despite the amused tone, Abigail could detect the sarcasm hidden underneath.

Ignoring him, Abigail found a small clear bottle of what appeared to be an antiseptic. After she managed to get a few haphazard drops over the wound, she tipped the box over, spreading the rest of its contents over the road, hand desperately rummaging before clamping over a dowel of thread and a packet of needles. Her vision began to swim dangerously, but she'd be damned if she was going to pass out now.

Hours seemed to pass until Abigail had managed to sew the wound shut in a handful of minutes, finally letting her hands drop into her lap, hiccupping out soft sobs.

"Well, gentlemen," Negan announced. "It's not every day that you come across a pretty little thing who knows how to take some serious shit, now isn't it?"

They snickered, and Lucille was at her temple once more.

"But, I _did_ say that we already have a doctor, sweetheart." He sighed, running his free hand over his chin, turning back to face his men. "S'damn shame to waste someone like her, ain't it?"

Abigail's eyes went wide as they met with his, the fear ripe as he adjusted his grip on Lucille.

"I'm sorry," he said, voice completely devoid of any remorse. "I truly am."

And as he swung, Abigail fell forward, throwing her hands protectively over her head.

" _No!_ Please – _please_ don't! _Stop!_ I'll do _anything_ – _**anything!"**_

The words tumbled forth in a graceless, pathetic, shrill string of sobs. Abigail was cowering like an animal, and she knew it. Self-disgust rose like bile in her throat, but she continued to plead and beg until her voice broke, her entire body quaking in fear.

Since the outbreak, Abigail had proven herself useful as a doctor. She'd been moving between large communities and smaller groups, offering her services but never staying for too long. In return, she'd been given a place to sleep and learned to defend herself so that she could safely travel alone when the time came for her to leave.

However, in the back of her mind, Abigail always had a second plan in place if she ever found herself in a situation where there was no other possible choice for survival.

And this was it.

"Do my ears deceive me?" Negan taunted aloud, bringing Lucille down in a jovial swing. "Did I just hear that precious word _'anything'_ come from that pretty little mouth of yours, dear Abby?"

Still sobbing, Abigail could only nod, keeping her head bowed. Negan chuckled darkly.

"Jesus, I love it when a woman begs."

A hand suddenly fisted itself in her hair, and Abigail's head was forcibly brought up with a yelp of pain. Negan's hot breath ghosted over the sweat that glazed her cheeks and forehead; gone was the twinkle of humour in his eyes.

"You belong to me now – I own you. You provide for me, and you answer only to me."

Abigail sobbed, and Negan's grip on her hair tightened.

"You will speak when you are spoken to, do you understand me?"

"Y-yes, yes… yes," Abigail whimpered.

His hand then moved to roughly grip her chin, the leather of his glove pinching at her skin.

"Yes, _who?_ "

He jerked her chin once more, and she practically sobbed out her reply. "Y-yes… N-Negan."

The corner of Negan's eyes crinkled, the cruel mirth returning and his teeth flashed as another low chuckle rumbled from his chest.

"Atta girl."

He then released his grip with a light slap to her cheek and stood, letting Abigail fall forward with a gasp. But before she could meet his gaze once more, a sharp pain exploded from the side of her head, and everything went black.

* * *

 **Is there room for one more in the Negan fan club?**

 **Please review!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Fear and Desperation**

Chapter 2

* * *

With every passing second, the world around her slowly drew back into focus. There was light, there was warmth; but it was quiet, she realized.

 _Am I dead?_

Abigail groaned as the throbbing ache on the side of her head began to pulse hotly.

 _No, no… definitely not dead… but where—?_

As if being held underwater, Abigail suddenly shot up into a sitting position with a choked gasp, hand clutched at her chest as the events of the previous night came crashing back with the same force she remembered being struck with. Her head spun violently and her stomach lurched, its contents spilling onto the floor as she grabbed the railing of the bed and leaned over.

Raising her hand to wipe her mouth, Abigail's other hand stopped short. To her dismay, she realized she was handcuffed to the railing of the bed; the cold metal of the cuff formed an even colder knot in the depths of her stomach. She shook her wrist once, the rattling of metal on metal echoing throughout the room, and then twice, before sighing in defeat. Everything ached; the muscles in her legs wheezing in protest when she tried to move, but it paled in comparison to the sharp pain in her upper left arm. Her vision blurred threateningly once more, and Abigail fell back onto the bed, throwing an arm over her eyes.

" _You belong to me now."_

That voice… so frighteningly calculating and controlled, made Abigail to shiver.

" _You provide for me, and you answer only to me."_

Her gut clenched in disgust as she painfully remembered willingly handing herself over to him – to Negan.

" _I own you."_

Shutting her eyes, Abigail let out a deep sigh. An inexplicable feeling of dread had replaced the feeling of disgust as her thoughts immediately trekked into dangerous territory.

It didn't take a genius to figure out how a man like Negan would act on her plea of willing to do anything if he spared her life; Abigail had escaped from enough groups of men to know what exactly was on their mind if a woman had begged him the way she had pitifully begged Negan for her life.

But if it would keep her alive long enough to escape, then she would bite the bullet. As much as it made her stomach turn, and as much as it crushed her pride, this world wasn't the same as it had once been – and if you didn't fall in line, then you were either killed or left behind.

A soft click resounded throughout the room and Abigail's eyes shot to the door as a figure slowly entered. She could have cried in relief as the figure that had stepped into the room wasn't Negan, but a doctor – judging by the white lab coat he wore.

Abigail stiffened and watched him intently. He hadn't said anything yet, nor even spared a glance in her direction. Instead, he'd moved to the wall of cabinets and began rummaging through the contents of a draw to his left, taking out what Abigail recognised as antiseptic and cotton swabs followed by a dowel of string and a proper surgeon's needle.

The man himself wasn't anything out of the ordinary. He was tall and slim and looked like any other doctor with a pair of thin-rimmed glasses. While he appeared to be calm, Abigail's heart was hammering. She then saw that he grabbed a needle from a different drawer, and she stiffened as he turned to face her.

"Hi Abigail, I'm Doctor Carson. How are you feeling?"

She didn't speak; her eye was still trained on the needle in his hand as if he would lunge at her at any given moment. He must have noticed her scepticism, and let out a little chuckle.

"It's just a little numbing serum – for the stitches." Placing his tools, and the needle, down onto the small wheeled table, he approached her gently, motioning for her shirt. "May I?"

Abigail turned to face the window, which wasn't much of a window, as he carefully unlocked the set of handcuffs and then proceeded to unbutton her shirt – a light blue one with long sleeves, now that she noticed it – and her only other item of clothing was a pair of black shorts. She rubbed at her wrist as she tried to look out the window; the frosted glass of the windows provided enough light, but sadly, no insight into exactly where she was.

She could be miles from nowhere.

Reaching for his stethoscope, he hooked the ear pieces in and placed his free hand on her back. The metal was cool on her chest and sent goosebumps prickling over her flesh. He instructed her to breathe in, and then out.

They repeated the process another four times before he seemed satisfied. When he turned away to fetch something from the table, Abigail quickly buttoned her shirt.

Dr. Carson grabbed a clipboard from the counter. "You've been out for a couple of days with a concussion. How do you feel? Any headaches or nausea?"

Abigail nodded.

Dr. Carson's lips pursed as he noticed the puddle of vomit on the floor and scribbled something down onto the paper. "Could be from the concussion. We'll keep an eye on that. Any pre-existing medical conditions that I should know about?"

Again, she shook her head. Again, he scribbled something down, most likely for their records. She didn't care; she knew as well as anyone else it was standard protocol as a health physician.

"Negan says you're a doctor."

Abigail hesitated, but quickly composed herself.

"Uh, yeah."

Dr. Carson returned the clipboard to the counter and then turned around, a small smile on his face. "Can I see? The wound, I mean."

Abigail obliged and tentatively rolled up the sleeve of her left arm, thanking her lucky stars that Negan hadn't shot her dominant one. She hissed a breath through clenched teeth as the fabric came over the poorly dressed wound.

Craning her neck, she could see the angry red flesh surrounding the abysmal attempt at pulling the flesh back together. It throbbed painfully when Carson lifted her arm toward him for a better look.

"You did this?"

She nodded.

He chuckled. "Well, considering the situation, it's not a bad job. But I'm going to have to give you that numbing serum first so that I can clean and dress this properly, okay?"

Again, she nodded, and the doctor went about his business. The sting of the needle paled in comparison to the throbbing the wound had already caused, and after a brief pause to see if she was in any discomfort, Dr. Carson dabbed a cotton pad of antiseptic around the angry flesh before cutting the existing string with a set of surgical pliers.

"Hmm… the flesh is a little agitated, but there doesn't appear to be any sign of an infection," he said as he assessed the wound, giving it a gentle prod. She flinched, but didn't say anything.

Looking around, Abigail was surprised to see all kinds of medical supplies and tools that she thought hadn't existed anymore since the world turned; atop the counter were numerous containers with labels, bottles of all shapes and sizes, and God only knew what else was kept in the other drawers and cupboards. The rest of the room was sparsely furnished – or perhaps it was just clean, she thought offhandedly.

To her right, however, was another door; a large metal one with a red and white KEEP OUT sign on the front that Abigail knew contained more supplies and medicine – but she didn't fail to notice the three large, ugly padlocks hanging like ornaments just above the knob.

Once the serum had kicked in, Dr. Carson went to stitching the wound back up with practised ease, as if he'd done this procedure a thousand times in his sleep. Abigail let her eyes follow his movements, unperturbed at the thin bit of metal that was going in and out of her skin.

She'd seen worse things.

"We could always use another doctor around here, you know," Dr. Carson suddenly spoke as he finished the last stitch.

He sighed when Abigail pointedly ignored him.

"Negan – he looks after us here," he said, his tone serious, almost pleading. "We have plenty of food, water and electricity; you'll never go hungry. You can either work to earn your keep, or I can speak to Negan and ask him to let you be our second doctor. I know it's not a glamorous job, but—"

"—I'll think about it," she quipped, desperate to end the conversation. "Thanks."

Dr. Carson didn't appear entirely satisfied with her answer, but he didn't press any further, and for that, Abigail was thankful.

As he began to wrap the wound, the door suddenly opened. Two sets of eyes fixed onto the figure that entered; one set of eyes remaining impassive while the other set grew wide in terror. That same chilling smile was on his face, and the cruel mirth in his eyes was not lost on her.

"Hey, Doc," Negan greeted, swinging Lucille onto his shoulder and letting his eyes heavily settle on her. "What's the good word?"

Negan's gaze never left Abigail as Dr. Carson spoke. "She's fine, just needs some rest," he informed him, moving to pack up the tools he'd used to stitch her wound. "She managed to close it herself before any infections could set in." Dr. Carson paused, his eyes briefly flicking over to Abigail. "It was an impressive job, I must say; and I could always use—"

Lucille was immediately at Dr. Carson's nose, and Abigail's heart sank as he took the hint, gently placed down his tools with a sigh and disappeared into the hallway, leaving her alone with Negan; all the while, his penetrating gaze never leaving her own frightened one.

Now that she was alone with him, Abigail took a hard look at the man she'd resigned herself to that night.

The first thing she noticed was his height – he towered over her without even having to try. Not in the physical sense, of course, since she herself was a mere five-three; but in the way that made you cower on the inside, too. Despite his relaxed posture, there was an obvious strength there lying dormant underneath the leather jacket and red neck scarf. He appeared to be around his late forties or early fifties; the darkness of his hair and the light grey patches in his beard made it difficult to tell.

Abigail swallowed thickly as he took a step forward, determined to hold his gaze. He said nothing for a moment, taking enjoyment in her torment.

"Comfortable?"

Despite the fear and his intimidating presence, Abigail forced herself to speak.

"As much as I can be," she replied evenly.

Negan chuckled. "Not in a fighting mood today, sweetheart? I gotta say, I'm disappointed. And here I was hoping to see a little of that fight in you," he said, coming to a stop mere inches from her knees.

There were a plethora of words bleeding behind her lips, but Abigail held firm and bit her tongue. He crouched down slightly, bringing his eyes level with hers. "Not much of a talker today, are we?"

"I've got nothing to say."

A cruel smirk peeled across his lips. "Is that so?" he said, leaning Lucille against the cabinets and bringing his hands to her shirt. "Well, listen up, sweetheart, because I've got _lots_ to say."

The first button on her shirt came away with a short flick.

"It's pretty simple, actually. You do as I say, and you live."

The second button came undone with ease.

"You help me get shit, or I turn you into shit."

The third followed, quickly by the fourth. Abigail was trembling now, but Negan made no move to stop as his hands flicked open the last button of her shirt.

"That being said," he continued, placing both hands on her shoulders, "you and I both know what that little… stunt of yours meant the other night." In one swift motion, his hands slid down her arms, forcing the shirt to pool around her waist and exposing her breasts.

Negan then stood back, eyes lingering at her chest, a low whistle echoing throughout the room. He then reached for Lucille, gently gripping her by the handle. Abigail watched as Lucille's head came to her chest, and gasped as one of the barbs met her bare skin.

"But lucky for you, sweetheart, I'm an old fashioned, stand-up kinda guy." His smile was wide, and if it weren't for the cruelty of the situation, would have been considered genuine. The barb slowly continued its southbound journey, Abigail still shaking but determined to use every ounce of her being to hold his gaze. "I enjoy the thrill of the chase; ain't much fun in it if there's nothing to work for. You gotta at least try a little."

Negan smirked and then pressed Lucille a little harder, drawing blood just below her breasts, causing Abigail to gasp.

"And as the stand-up guy that I am, I've decided to take you up on your offer."

He then stood, removing Lucille from her chest.

"You see, Abigail, I had plans for you; pretty big plans, actually. But I've come to realize something – you're not like the other women who have begged for their life the way you did. You want to know why I've changed my mind?"

Abigail didn't move.

"I can tell you're not like the others. It ain't a fuckin' compliment, sweetheart, so don't get it into your head that I like you. I see the fight you have in you, I will admit that – but to me, you're still a piece of shit. You are still mine to control, and mine to use. So," he said, cocking his jaw to the side, "when I say jump, what does Abigail do?"

The amusement left Negan's eyes as Abigail glared and refused to answer him.

Suddenly, his hand flew to her injured arm, his grip on it so tight that the pain caused Abigail to see flashes of white. She shrieked when she felt his thumb push hard into the wound, and with a great force, he hauled her from the bed and slammed her against the wall, his grip on her arm still tight; the tools on the small medical table scattering across the room as it was sent crashing to the floor.

"In case you forgot, sweetheart, _I own you._ I made that pretty fuckin' clear when we first met." His voice was low and menacing, despite her screams that rattled the windows. "So, when I say jump, you fuckin' jump. When I say get on your knees, you'd better do it with some god damned enthusiasm. And when I say pull the trigger, I want you to _fuckin' smile as you do it."_

Negan then released her, and Abigail slumped to the floor, clutching her arm.

"So, I'm going to ask you one more time, and do _not_ make me have to ask twice," he growled, coming to stand over her. "Jump."

Lucille swung threateningly at his side, and Abigail looked up to meet his gaze. Slowly, she stood to her feet, eyes never leaving his.

He smiled. "Glad to see we are at an understanding, sweetheart. I'll be coming for you, so you'd damn well better be ready."

Abigail watched as he turned on his heel and headed for the door.

"Nice tits, by the way," he said, Lucille coming to take her rightful place on his shoulder. Abigail watched through strangled sobs and with a silent fury as he exited into the hallway, grimacing as the fresh blood seeped between her fingers.

Dr. Carson entered the room almost as quickly as Negan had left. He moved silently and swiftly; gently helping her back to the bed and tending to the re-opened wound once he'd picked up the scattered tools and buttoned her shirt back up.

"You shouldn't make him angry. Just do as he says, Abigail."

Dr. Carson didn't press for a response as he set her arm in a makeshift sling. Abigail watched as he opened the nearest drawer and produced a small package of caplets and handed two small white tablets to her before moving to the sink.

The sound of the water almost drowned out the soft knocking at the door.

Abigail watched as a woman with short brown hair carefully enter the room. She wore a short, dark sundress that was quite pretty, and suited her slim figure well. Her eyes were a light shade of brown, and her facial features were soft as her eyes moved from the doctor to her.

"Oh, I'm sorry—I didn't realize you were busy," she said, making a move to leave.

"Nonsense," Dr. Carson replied, turning his attention back to Abigail's arm. "It's in the top left drawer."

Abigail watched as the girl hesitated before walking across the room. She opened the drawer, but whatever she had pulled out, Abigail couldn't see as the woman had it clutched tightly to her chest. She then disappeared through another door that Abigail noticed was a small bathroom.

She tore her gaze away when Dr. Carson handed her a small cup of water.

"They'll help with the pain," he said, nodding to the tablets in her hand.

Suddenly realizing how thirsty she was, Abigail tossed back the pills and very nearly cried as the cool water greeted her lips. She tipped her head back and ignored how the water trickled from the sides of her mouth and onto her shirt.

Having realized the same thing, Dr. Carson took the cup from her hands and refilled it another three times for her, watching in silence as she downed each cup with loud gulps. Placing the cup down, Abigail wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and muttered a small thank-you to the doctor, who began to talk some more, but his words were lost on Abigail as her thoughts drifted.

This wasn't anything like the other groups she'd come across in the past; this place was well-equipped and run by a man who enjoyed torturing others for his own personal enjoyment. This place was dangerous, and Abigail needed to escape – and soon.

But it would be incredibly difficult, she thought; especially with a man like Negan running things around here. She'd need to be extremely careful, but more importantly, she'd need to earn his trust.

That thought made her stomach clench.

The door to the bathroom suddenly opened, and out came the woman from earlier. Abigail watched as she placed something on the counter, but from her angle, Abigail couldn't make out what it was.

Abigail hadn't realized she'd been staring.

"Who's this?" she asked.

"Sherry, this is Abigail," Dr. Carson said. "She'll be staying with you from now on."

Abigail didn't miss the way her expression changed from curiosity to panic.

"Is she—?"

"—No, she's not."

Sherry's fear immediately dissipated.

"Oh, well all right then." She then turned to Abigail and smiled. "You good to go?"

She looked to Dr. Carson, who gave her the briefest nods before turning back to his tools. Abigail then stood and followed Sherry out the door and into the hallway, grimacing as the muscles in her legs still hadn't recovered yet.

The two walked in silence, Abigail taking in her new surroundings. They were in some sort of factory or compound; perhaps a mix of both. The walls were a dull forest green, rust lining the edges of some of the walls and doorways, the concrete floor cold on her bare feet. A handful of men passed them as they headed for what looked like an exit, and Abigail was desperate to change into something that didn't attract so many leering eyes.

Sherry must have noticed her discomfort.

"You get used to it," she said. "But they won't touch you."

 _Won't touch me?_

"Why?"

Sherry hesitated before answering. "Negan."

 _Of course._

"So," Sherry sighed, clearly desperate to change the subject as she plastered a smile on her face, "how old are you, Abby? Is it all right if I call you that?"

Sherry's smile seemed sincere enough, so Abigail nodded at the question.

"Twenty-five."

Sherry nodded as they came to a door. Abigail stood to the side as Sherry opened it and gestured for her to exit first.

The weather outside was pleasant enough; the sun warming their backs as they walked across to what looked like the main part of the community. A gentle breeze flitted through her hair, and Abigail couldn't help but notice how large the place was; she could see several large buildings, a sectioned-off area that appeared to house a garden and some livestock, as well as a communal area and a place for washing and drying clothes. People walked about, relaxed and… happy, even.

As they walked, they came past a munitions area along with a firing range. The shots echoed like fireworks around the area, rows of men poised to aim at their targets. Despite the humidity, a chill cascaded down her spine.

 _So much spare ammunition,_ she thought in disbelief. _Just how big is this place? And just how many men does he have at his disposal?_

Her earlier thoughts about planning an escape seemed more impossible by the second; this place was built and protected like a fortress. Everything from food, to weapons and to medicine was most likely heavily guarded, and any attempt to steal anything would end with a nice conversation with Lucille.

After a few more minutes of walking, they came to another building.

"Big place," Abigail commented.

Sherry turned to her, seemingly stunned that she'd even said anything. "Oh? Ah, yeah, it's pretty big," she said. "After you."

They both stepped into the building, Sherry leading her up a flight of stairs.

"So, since you and I are going to be sharing a room, let me give you a quick tour. Over there are the bathrooms, which are communal. There's also an activities room down the hall with a couple of couches and a bookshelf, but we mostly just play cards to pass the time," Sherry explained.

"We?" you asked, curious about the others.

Sherry sighed. "Yeah, there are a few other girls who live here as well. I'll tell you about them once we get settled," she said as they turned a corner. "Also, we eat breakfast between seven and nine, lunch is around noon, and dinner is between six and seven-thirty. If you miss out, tough luck. It may look like we have a lot of food, but we're careful about how much we use."

"Be on time or starve – got it," you said.

Sherry giggled. "Yeah, that's pretty much it, really. Oh, here's our room."

The room wasn't as small as she'd expected – in fact, it was large enough to house them both comfortably, and was generously furnished. There was a bed over by the window, covered in numerous throws and a fluffy quilt cover that practically begged Abigail to surrender to it. To the left was a set of drawers that sat next to a partially opened wardrobe.

"It's not much, but it's home," Sherry sighed.

Abigail spied a mattress on the floor that opposed Sherry's bed, coupled only with a rumpled white pillow.

"This mine?"

"Uh, yeah," Sherry smiled sheepishly. "I know it's not very glamorous, but it'll have to do."

"No, no, it's fine," Abigail said, turning to smile softly at Sherry and finding herself becoming more comfortable by the second, the tension slipping from her shoulders. "It's more than what I've had for a long time."

"Well then, let's get you out of those clothes," she said, moving to carefully grab her by the shoulders and steer her toward the wardrobe, eyes roaming from her toes to her face. "You look about my size."

Sherry then began to rummage through the wardrobe, pulling out a few items. "Would you like some pants, or a dress?"

"Pants, please."

Sherry continued to rummage, tossing out a few more items of clothing onto the bed. She then crouched down and pulled out a pair of black boots that were much nicer than the ones she had been wearing when she as picked up by Negan.

Ignoring the chill that his name often brought, Abigail made her way over to the bed and used her uninjured arm to rummage through the clothes, puttied aside a couple of t-shirts and a pair of pants. Sherry had since moved to her set of drawers and tossed her a set of mismatched underwear.

"Take what you like. I have more, or you can go pick some up from the laundry house," she informed her. "That was the red building we passed earlier. Feel free to change in the bathroom while I go get you something to eat," she said, giving her a once over. "You look like you haven't eaten in days."

The thought of food made Abigail salivate. Sherry then left the room, and Abigail took a seat on Sherry's bed, letting her eyes slid shut at the way she sunk into the mattress. As she looked around the room, memorising where everything was located, she almost didn't recognise herself in the mirror.

To put it plainly, she looked like shit.

Her hair was abysmal and wrangled with so many knots that she considered cutting it the first chance she got. Her eyes were bloodshot and she was sporting one hell of a crescent shaped bruise on the side of her head, courtesy of her dear friend Lucille. Coupled with her gaunt cheeks and exhausted expression, she was the pinnacle of shit.

Sherry returned moments later with a tray of food that made Abigail's mouth water.

"It's only bread and beans – nothing too fancy, I'm afraid."

"Thank you," Abigail said sincerely, taking the tray and placing it over her lap and picking up a piece of bread.

Sherry then busied herself with tidying up the room; folding blankets and straightening up various parts of the room. It was silent, but comfortable.

As she ate, Abigail decided that she liked Sherry. She was kind and sincere enough to let Abigail share half of everything that she owned. Not many people would willingly do that while in the middle of an apocalypse; most were selfish, and looked after only themselves.

And if Abigail needed to start gaining the trust of this place and its people, now was as good a time as any to start.

"Where are the other girls?"

"I'm not sure," Sherry answered.

Abigail swallowed her mouthful of food. "What are they like?"

Sherry sighed, an unexpected reaction if she were honest. She then turned to Abigail, her lips pursed in a grim line.

"Abby," she began, appearing to choose her words carefully, "what did… what did Negan say to you?"

Well, that certainly caught her off guard.

Abigail feigned innocence. "What do you mean?"

Sherry then took a seat next to her on the bed. "I know he was in there with you earlier today," she said. "He was, wasn't he?"

Abigail nodded, unable to read the expression on the brunette's face. "Yeah, he was."

"Did… did he say anything to you? What did he talk to you about?"

Not only did Abigail need to earn their trust, she needed to trust them too.

"Well, he told me that… that he owned me," she admitted. "That I answer to him, and only him."

Sherry thought for a moment. "Did he ask you anything?"

"No, nothing specific…" she replied, brows furrowing at Sherry's expression. "Why?"

Abigail watched as the girl beside her struggled to choose her next words.

"He didn't ask you to marry him, did he?"

Abigail's eyes went wide.

 _Marry me? What on earth is going on here?_

"Abby, the other girls here, they're not like you," she confessed, avoiding her gaze. "They… well, they're Negan's wives."

Noticing that Abigail was at a loss for words, she quickly began to explain.

"You see, the people here work on a points system, which acts like currency. However, some of the women have had the option to forego the points system and become one of his wives, where the points system doesn't apply to them. You get whatever you want, you'll be protected, and no-one can touch you – on the condition that you accept his proposal and everything that comes with it."

Abigail's stomach clenched. She didn't have to think about what that last part entailed.

She shook the thoughts from her head. "No, he didn't ask."

Relief flooded Sherry's face.

"He did say he would be coming for me, though," Abigail admitted. "And to be ready for when he does."

The relief immediately washed away.

"Abby, I need you to promise me something," she said, taking her hand. Abigail's confused eyes met Sherry's desperate ones. "I need you to promise me that whatever he says, whatever he asks of you, just do it. There's no reward in testing his temper. Whatever he's done to you, there's more – there's _always_ more."

* * *

 **Wow, I didn't expect such a response from the first chapter! Thank you all so much for your kind words, follows, and favourites. I didn't expect this chapter to be so long, but I'm glad with how it turned out. Let me know your thoughts!**

 **Be kind to one another, and get ready for TWD's 90 minute episode this week! *squee***


	3. Chapter 3

**Fear and Desperation**

Chapter 3

* * *

"Abigail?" a voice said. "Hey, Abigail – are you awake?"

With a groan, Abigail threw a hand over her eyes, reality slowly coming into focus, the dull ache in her upper arm still throbbing happily. Opening her eyes, she spied Sherry crouched by her side.

"Everything all right?"

"You've been out for three days," Sherry explained before smiling wryly. "Had to make sure you weren't dead."

Abigail blinked, moving up into a sitting position, squinting at the sunlight that poured through the nearby window. She also spied the makeshift sling lying over the edge of the mattress, having most likely come off in her sleep, as well as a rumpled blanket.

She furrowed her brows. "Three days?"

Sherry nodded. "Come on, get up. You need a shower."

Taking the brunette's outstretched hand, Abigail shakily got to her feet. She swayed a little before Sherry's hand quickly came to steady her.

"What time is it?" Abigail asked as they entered the bathroom.

"Nearly eight. If you hurry, we can still make it to breakfast," she replied, ushering her to turn around and face her, fingers coming to her buttons. Abigail's heart skipped as she remembered the last set of hands to reach for those buttons. Her upper arm throbbed angrily in response, and she swallowed thickly.

"How are you feeling?"

"Better. Still a little sore."

Sherry helped her ease out of the blood-stained shirt. "I'll get some painkillers for you."

Abigail shook her head. "No, it's all right. I'll manage."

Sherry sighed. "Well, showers here are timed for exactly three minutes, so be quick. Feel free to use anything you see. I'll be outside."

The door clicked shut, and Abigail turned to face the mirror, grimacing. She felt well-rested, but the initial exhaustion would take a few more days to wear away. She silently thanked her new roommate for letting her sleep as she stepped out of the shorts, kicking them to the side and making a mental note to take them out to wash. The blue shirt was still wearable, too, she mused, rubbing the blood-stained fabric between her thumb and forefinger.

Turning to the side, she took a glance at the stitches on her upper arm. The angry red had faded to a yellowed bruise, some spots still an ugly purple from where Negan had pressed his thumb into during their conversation a few days ago. She frowned at the memory, but quickly dismissed it.

Turning the knobs, Abigail was surprised at the intense pressure of the water. Not wanting to waste any time, she carefully stepped under the hot stream and moaned. The water felt like the tears of a god, and she struggled to remember a time when she'd last had a decent shower.

Abigail shampooed her hair, ignoring the pain in her arm as she scrubbed and scrubbed, cursing at the knots that just wouldn't budge. The conditioner helped ease them a little, but she still needed to brush it; she'd need to ask Sherry to borrow one when she got out of the shower.

She'd already counted two minutes and eight seconds, so she quickly finished up with some soap, lathering the bar over her face, arms, stomach and legs. It smelled sweet, and Abigail closed her eyes with a sigh as she let the water run down her body.

The water suddenly shut off, much to her dismay, but she turned the knobs into the off position and stepped out of the shower, reaching for the towel on the counter. Abigail took another glance at herself in the mirror, and smiled a little when her overall appearance had considerably improved; the colour had returned to her cheeks, and her skin was finally free of the dirt and grime that had built up since her last proper wash.

Wrapping the towel around her chest, Abigail stepped out of the bathroom. Sherry was sitting on the bed, facing the full-length mirror that was kept by the window and running a brush through her hair.

"Enjoy yourself?" she asked, placing the brush down on her lap.

Abigail nodded. "Can't remember the last time I had a decent shower," she said, reaching over to pick up the pile of clothes Sherry must have folded for her while she was in the bathroom. She picked up the mismatched underwear and separated the rest of the items of clothing, laying them out.

Sherry turned to face the window and grant her some privacy, so Abigail quickly slipped into the dark grey t-shirt and jeans. She then reached for the towel and rubbed it over her hair, squeezing out any excess water.

"Here."

Abigail turned to see the brush handed to her. She took it and walked over to the mirror, starting at the ends and working her way up through the barrage of knots. There were only a few large ones, which Sherry helped her brush out. After a few minutes, the knots were gone, and Abigail ran a hand through her dark brown hair that looked almost black when wet. She'd almost forgotten how long it had grown since the world had turned, she mused thoughtfully, taking a strand between her fingers. It had now grown past her collarbone and over her chest, the strands already beginning to curl into that natural wave she'd inherited from her mother's side.

"Come on," Sherry said, handing her a pair of boots and flashing her a smile. "Breakfast will be over soon."

The sun was already high in the sky, bathing the grounds in a comfortable heat. People walked about – mostly men, she noticed – carrying either weapons or bags. She also spied a few women and children milling about, laughing and talking and enjoying the weather.

Abigail followed close behind Sherry as they neared the mess hall, watching as some people worked in the gardens while others were attending other various duties. She could tell that this place ran on some sort of system, much like the other communities she'd been to – but this one was different.

She noticed that most of the men tended to the weapons, while the less-able and elderly, were stationed at areas such as the laundry house, or the gardens. Some were also dressed better than others, and that little detail did not escape her.

If she needed to plan her escape, she needed to know how this place worked.

They sat down to breakfast, Sherry having grabbed each of them a tray while Abigail took a seat at one of the empty tables. Abigail's stomach whined in agony at the sight of the food; Sherry had grabbed her some bread, sliced tomato and a helping of beans with a glass of water.

"First meal is free," Sherry said, tearing at her piece of bread. "Eat up."

Abigail swallowed her mouthful of food. "What do you mean, the first meal is free?"

"The people here work on a system based on points," she explained, placing the tiny piece of bread into her mouth. "Think of it as currency. Each person starts off with one-hundred points, and they get assigned to a job. Everything costs points, but your first meal and set of clothing is free."

Abigail thought for a moment. "Even food?"

Sherry nodded. "If you want food, you need points. If you want new clothes, or weapons or medicine; you need to work to earn enough points."

She watched as Sherry aimlessly moved her fork around her own helping of beans. Seemed like a fair situation; you work to earn food and clothing. None of the other communities she'd been to had this kind of system in place. But one thought stuck out to her.

"What happens if you fall behind on points?"

Sherry's eyes didn't leave her plate. "You don't want to fall behind."

Abigail could tell that Sherry didn't want to continue the conversation, so she returned to her meal, savouring what could be the last best meal she might ever have. Abigail frowned; it would prove difficult to plan an escape if she had to spend all hours of the day working for points. She needed to eat and gain her strength back, as well as getting her hands on some meds and weaponry.

She didn't have to guess just how many points those last two items cost.

Abigail watched as people moved in and out of the mess hall, some plates fuller than others, and her stomach churned uncomfortably as she watched a mother with a limp and her small, frail child share a plate that was barely full enough to feed a dog. And then anger licked at her insides as she spied some of the men with plates that had so much food that it was ridiculous.

Clearly, there was a hierarchy here. Abigail just needed to make sure she stayed near the top.

And if that meant winning the trust of the man himself, then so be it.

Her plan may not be ideal, but if it kept her alive, she would endure. She would need to prove to Negan that she was a capable and worthy asset, but that would take a long time and passing some very difficult tests before he would even glance her way.

Abigail looked around the mess hall and caught the eye of a man with a receding hair line, harsh eyes and a thick moustache. She looked away, but he seemed to be intent on seeking her out, much to her dismay. Two other men followed at his sides as he approached her table.

"You the new kid?" the man asked gruffly, giving her a once over.

Abigail nodded.

He tilted his head toward the exit. "Come with me."

* * *

"You ever shot one of these before?"

Abigail looked at the gun in Simon's hand.

"A few times."

"Good," he said, shoving it in her hand. Abigail fumbled with it, adjusting her grip and feeling the weight of it in her hand. She looked at him, and he raised an eyebrow expectantly.

"Ain't got all day, sweetheart."

Abigail turned around and lined herself up in front of the target. Beside her, other people were taking aim and shooting, the echoes screeching across the open field and fading into the distance. The heavy object felt foreign in her grip as she raised it high with both hands, held her breath, and squeezed the trigger.

The shot barely grazed the side of the target and she grit her teeth as the kick-back ricocheted through her injured arm.

"Pitiful," Simon said gruffly, earning a snicker from the two men that seemed to be attached to his side. "Cup your other hand underneath and turn to the left a little. Both eyes open," he demanded.

Doing as she was told, Abigail lined up the next shot and squeezed twice. They were closer to the middle, but it was evident to everyone that she still needed more practise. Abigail rarely needed to fire a gun; being a doctor meant that people protected you. Simon didn't say anything, and instead he walked off, the two unnamed men following suit.

Pursing her lips, Abigail adjusted her grip and tried again.

"Here," a voice said, startling her. "Let me help you."

Abigail turned to her right to see a boy about her age, maybe older. He had light brown hair, and his lips were turned upward into a hesitant smile. He then came to stand behind her and adjusted her grip and her stance, but held firm to her as he instructed her to take another shot.

To her amazement, her aim had improved considerably.

"Thanks," she said.

"No problem," he laughed. "I'm Tom."

She squeezed the trigger again.

"Abigail."

Tom then took his place back behind his target and fired three quick, consecutive shots, all of them landing within three inches of the painted target.

"Never seen you around here before," he said, popping out the magazine and inserting a new one with a sharp click.

"Got in a few days ago," she replied.

He laughed again. "Well, let me be the first to welcome you to the Sanctuary."

They continued to fire at their targets, Abigail concentrating on the instruction given by the boy beside her. The kick-back was something she'd need to get used to, she thought as her arm throbbed painfully. Putting down her gun, she rubbed at her arm with a sigh.

"What happened?" Tom asked, nodding toward her arm.

Abigail banished the memories that threatened to resurface. "Gunshot wound."

Tom clucked his tongue. "Hurts, don't it? Got myself shot one time, too." He then placed his gun down, and Abigail was beginning to feel exhausted already; three days of sleep and one plate of food weren't enough right now. Plus, the heat didn't help much either.

"Well, you ain't half bad," she heard Tom say, "but if you keep improving like that, and you'll be going on runs in no time."

Abigail stopped.

"Runs?"

 _Outside the walls?_

Abigail turned to Tom, who nodded.

"Oh yeah!" he said excitedly. "If you're good enough with weapons, they'll consider taking you along," Tom explained. "The only ever take the good ones, but I've been practising every day."

One of the guards that had been standing by came around to collect the weapons, and the group of people began to follow each other out. She thought for a moment, taking in this new piece of information, but decided to play innocent if she were to gain anything else of value.

"You want to go out on runs?" she asked as they turned to leave. "Aren't they dangerous?"

Tom laughed. "Well, sure, but I need to get my points up. There's this really cool jacket I've got my eye on in the laundry house. Plus, I'm feeling cooped up in here; need to get out and run a little," he shrugged.

"Sounds fair."

"What about you?"

"What about me?"

He laughed. "Don't you want to go on runs? I mean, you're getting the hang of this pretty quickly – I think you've got a real shot at being picked."

Abigail forced out a laugh. "I don't think so."

"Why not?" he asked.

"I'm a doctor," she explained as they stepped under the shade of a nearby tree. "Too risky to take me on a run."

He smirked, Abigail noticing just how boyish he looked when his lips quirked up. His hands were shoved in his pockets, eyes squinting as he turned to pretend and survey the area. "Sounds fair. Well, at least if I get hurt out there, I know you'll be here to patch me up."

Tom then turned to face her.

"Wanna grab some lunch?"

* * *

Ten days had passed since her encounter with Negan.

Abigail had seen him around the Sanctuary, but he barely spared a glance in her direction. He mostly paced about, Lucille perched lovingly on his shoulder, and she watched from the corner of her eye with disgust as men actually kneeled before him. A small voice in the back of her head reminded her that soon enough, she would have to kneel as well.

Two days ago, she'd heard from Tom during their usual stint at the target range that Negan and his men had left to go on a run that morning. Tom was upset that he hadn't been chosen this time around, but that wasn't much of a concern to her. What Abigail _really_ wanted to know was where they went, and how long they were usually gone for.

Perhaps if she improved fast enough, then she could ask to join them. After all, Negan hadn't come for her just yet, as he said he would, so if she could sway him in any way, it was worth a shot. The opportunity to go out on a run would provide her with an insight as to where he and his people would travel, and which places they visited. With enough information about the layout of their routes, she could start planning an escape path that avoided any possible intersection.

Abigail sighed. It was definitely going to take a long time, but time was exactly what she needed at this point. It would take a long time to convince Negan of her worth, but any progress was better than nothing.

Every morning thus far, Abigail had gone to the shooting range and practised, Tom often at her side. Dr. Carson had removed the stitches on her arm the day before, and though the muscle was still tender, she was able to accomplish a lot more. And when she wasn't practising, she was helping with odd jobs around the Sanctuary – mainly in the laundry house. She earned points, but was careful about spending them, even if it meant skipping a meal or two. She was also thankful that Sherry shared her clothes with her, and wouldn't have to spend so much points on washing and clothing.

It was nearing the evening, and Abigail was heading back to her room after finishing up in the laundry house. Night was setting in, crickets humming contentedly in the patches of grass. The air was still warm, but a cool breeze was beginning to settle, chilling the sweat that stained her clothes.

As she rounded the corner, she spied the top left window that was the room she shared with Sherry; the thought of sinking into the mattress causing a smile to slip over her face. However, before she could reach the front door, she could hear voices – panicked ones.

Stopping, she spied that same mother and child she'd seen in the mess hall a few days ago. Abigail's heart sunk as she realized that the woman's limp had grown so much worse that she could barely walk; her young son – who could have been no older than five – pulling at her arm. The strain was visible on the mother's face as she suddenly stopped, and Abigail took off in a run as the mother collapsed to the ground, causing her child to scream and start crying.

Abigail skidded to a halt, crouching down.

"What happened? What's wrong?"

The mother was clutching her outstretched leg, a thick sheen of sweat bathing her forehead, making her dark hair cling to her neck and cheeks. A dirtied bandage was hiding whatever was causing her pain, but she could see the dried blood that had already stained it, along with the fresh blood that had begun to seep through.

"Sh-she's hurt!" the little boy wailed, voice thick with hysteria. "She's hurt real bad and the doctor won't fix her!"

Abigail's stomach lurched as the realization dawned on her.

Disgust rose in her throat, followed by the same licks of anger she'd felt when noticing that their plate had barely enough on it to feed one person. That familiar desire to help those in need wormed its way into her gut as the woman was mumbling something incoherent under her breath, shaking her head.

"Come with me."

"N-No!" the woman pleaded. "Please, don't." Abigail was hurt by the sheer terror that trembled by her dried lips. "I can't… I-I… don't have enough…"

"I'm not leaving you out here. Let's go. I'll take care of you."

Wrapping her arm around the woman's torso, she brought her to her feet, ignoring her pleas to let her be, and instructed the child to hold onto her t-shirt as she began to walk them both toward the infirmary.

She knocked on the door, hard.

Dr. Carson opened it, disdain evident as he seemed to recognise the woman who was draped over her shoulder.

"Can I help you?"

"Let me through," she demanded. "This woman needs help."

A hint of a smirk crawled across his lips, and were it not for the situation at hand, Abigail would have driven her fist through his nose. "Does she have enough points?"

Rage licked at her insides. "No, and I don't care. Now move."

"I can't let you," Dr. Carson said, eyes hardening. "It's against the rules."

Abigail bit back a frustrated growl. "Screw the rules; and she can take my points for all I care. I'll deal with Negan myself. Now, move."

They held one another's gaze for a moment more before Dr. Carson sighed and eventually stepped to the side. Abigail roughly pushed past him and helped the woman to the bed, the child coming to grasp his mother's hand. She tenderly ran her hand through her son's thick hair, whispering to him in her native tongue – Spanish, she realized.

Dr. Carson stood by the door, intent on keeping an eye on her, arms crossed tightly over his chest, glowering. Abigail completely ignored him as she began to rummage through the drawers and cupboards, remembering where he had grabbed everything from when she'd woken up that day. She found cotton pads, antiseptic, stitches and thread; she even managed to spy a half-opened casing of antibiotics on the counter. She couldn't find the numbing serum, though, and cursed under her breath.

Turning to flash a glare at Dr. Carson, Abigail carefully placed the woman's foot up on the bed. The woman hissed in pain, and Abigail gently shushed her.

"I'm going to remove the bandage and clean the wound. It's going to sting a little."

The woman nodded feverishly, the sweat beginning to drip down her temples.

And so, Abigail began to peel the soiled bandage from around her foot, the clotted blood peeling away and revealing stores of pus and agitated skin. The anger that still simmered in her belly now clawed for a way out.

 _This poor woman's leg is now infected, and what's worse is that this could have easily been treated a long time ago. How could they let this happen to her, especially when she has a child to feed and take care of?_

Fighting the urge to throw something, Abigail began to clean the wound, carefully removing the dried and fresh blood while using then needle to release the built-up pus, wiping it away with a fresh cotton pad after every gentle squeeze. The child's sobbing had now quieted to soft hiccups, his mother' hand still stroking his hair.

After fifteen minutes, the wound was thoroughly cleaned, and Abigail was now wrapping her foot in a clean bandage. Once it was secured, Abigail went to the sink and filled up a glass of water and handed her two pills.

"Here, take two of these. It'll only help for the infection, I'm afraid. You'll still be in pain for a few days."

The woman downed the pills, relief ripe in her warm eyes. Abigail helped her off the bed, and the woman then cupped Abigail's cheeks with both hands, which were shaking with gratitude.

"Thank you… thank you… thank you," she whispered, and Abigail smiled, hand coming up to gently grip her wrist, but didn't speak.

The woman then left the room, child by her side, Dr. Carson barely leaving enough room for them to squeeze by.

Abigail pointedly ignored him as she went about cleaning up the soiled cotton wipes and dirty bandages. The silence was heavy.

"You shouldn't have done that," Dr. Carson whispered.

"She was _hurt,"_ Abigail bit out, roughly tossing the waste into the bin. "I couldn't just stand by and let her suffer."

"She fell behind on points."

Abigail let out a frustrated growl and turned on her heel. "Are you kidding me? That is _bullshit_ and you know it!" she exclaimed hotly, the injustice rising like bile in her throat. "We… are… _doctors._ We don't just stand by and let people suffer like that."

Dr. Carson suddenly stepped toward her.

"Look," he said, voice low. "I don't like this anymore than you do, okay? Do you think I enjoy turning away patients?"

"Could have fooled me."

His jaw twitched and he looked away. "I wanted to help her."

"Then _why?"_

"It's not me – it's Negan. There are _rules_ around here, Abigail – and you would do well to remember them. We might not like it, but we have to deal with it."

Abigail's eyes stung, but she willed away the tears. She didn't want to admit it, but he was right – and in hindsight, she knew that what she was doing would eventually end in a conversation with Negan, possibly even Lucille, but Abigail couldn't help herself. Someone was suffering, and she would rather die than let someone else suffer – especially when it could so easily be fixed.

But Abigail had gone and not only blatantly broken the rules, she'd dismissed Negan's authority in the process.

And now she was sure as Hell going to pay for it.

* * *

 **So... who here is still a hot mess after yesterday's episode? *raises hand***

 **I hope you all enjoyed this chapter because I had fun writing it! I do hope that I'm not rushing, nor taking this too slow. I want a slow progression, but an interesting one - which is what you're all going to get. So, what do you think is going to happen to Abigail? How do you think Negan will react? And what did you guys think of Tom? I have so many lovely plans in the future, my lovelies! Stay tuned!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Fear and Desperation**

Chapter 4

* * *

Abigail was thoroughly screwed, and she knew it.

She'd barely managed a wink of sleep that night after tending to the woman's injured foot; the sheer gravity of what she'd done, and what could very well happen, weighed heavily on her mind. While it may have been the right thing to do at the time, it would certainly cost her dearly.

What would Negan do with her once he found out? He was definitely the type who didn't take defiance lightly, but would he really kill someone who inadvertently disobeyed the system that he'd put in place?

If she tried to reason with herself, Abigail knew that she hadn't done anything wrong. Technically, she could sign the supplies out under her own name, thus costing her own points, and use them how she saw fit – which was to heal someone else. Did it _really_ matter what she did with the supplies once they were bought with her own points?

Abigail hauled herself up into a sitting position and ran her hand through her hair, ignoring the knots and letting her hand move to give a fierce rub to the back of her neck. From her spot on the floor, she could hear Sherry's soft, steady breaths breaking the otherwise silence. The sun was beginning to rise, the weather already promising to be warm, but she guessed that she still had a good forty minutes before everyone else would rise for the day, and still another hour before breakfast would be served.

A part of her really didn't want to go outside today, but she was due to practise at the munitions yard, as all new recruits were; as well as attend to her stint at the laundry house while simultaneously on standby for Dr. Carson. If she didn't show up to anything, they'd most likely come looking for her, and if she didn't need to earn points to live, Abigail would stay inside all day and spend her time with Sherry, or secretly plot her escape.

She sighed again. Abigail had been here just over a week and she still hadn't the faintest idea of how to escape, let alone where to even begin. This place kept her busy – a little too busy, in fact – and finding a way to thoroughly scout the area, and to steal and hide supplies would prove much more difficult than she'd originally anticipated. This community was much smarter than she gave them credit for.

But trying to plan an escape while simultaneously attempting to prove herself as a worthy asset was another ball-game altogether. If she ended up getting close to Negan – that is, if she still could, given what she'd just done – then it would be a challenge to keep him distracted.

 _But would it really be so bad to stay?_ a voice in the back of her head asked. _This place is the most populated one you've been to thus far – not to mention they grow their own food and have running water. You could just apologize and do the right thing and work to earn your keep._

Abigail grimaced. The small voice was right – to an extent.

Despite the way she'd been brought here, she'd be a fool not to see how safe and secure this place was. There was no running, no hiding, no need to sleep with one eye open and watching out for the undead at every turn. Not only did the people in this place survive, they thrived.

And as much as she hated to admit it, Abigail felt more relaxed here than she'd ever felt since the world turned.

But the only thing stopping her from getting comfortable was Negan.

Granted, he was a terrifying man, and possibly a little unstable, but she couldn't help but notice the way the men hung on his every word, obeyed his every command without so much as a blink of hesitation. It may not be perfect, but it was as close to normal as one could get nowadays.

* * *

"So, what made you decide to become a doctor?"

Abigail looked up from her tray of food. Tom sat opposite her, left cheek puffed from the food he hadn't swallowed yet. They'd spent nearly every day together since their meeting at the munitions yard just over a week ago, and Abigail had grown quite fond of him, and his presence made her feel comfortable enough to let her guard slip just a little bit. He was funny, a little cheeky, but still had a good heart – a rarity in these times. He chewed once, twice, waiting.

"Just wanted to help people," she answered vaguely, shrugging.

He laughed. "Bullshit," he scoffed. "No one ever does anything to help people out of the goodness of their hearts. Come on, tell me."

Abigail rolled her eyes. "Fine. It was for the money, cars, and beautiful women," she snickered, flicking a piece of food at his shirt. "Happy now?"

His smile grew wider, if it were even possible. "I knew it!" he exclaimed. "But seriously, how'd you manage to become a doctor at twenty- _five?"_

Abigail laughed. "Technically, I'm not a qualified doctor. But I did advance through university and managed to skip a few years." She sighed. "The world turned a week before my last medical licence exam, though."

Tom winced. "Ouch. That sucks."

"Missed it by _that_ much," she agreed.

They continued to eat their meal in a companionable silence, only speaking to comment on various topics and poking fun at one another. He was a fun guy, Abigail thought, but she couldn't shake the feeling that, well, he may have some sort of feelings toward her. However, it had been a while since she'd genuinely laughed and talked with a man, and she could just be misinterpreting his polite behaviour.

Tom was in the middle of telling a story, when his gaze shifted and his smile suddenly faltered. The din of the mess hall had also quietened, and Abigail's heart skipped a beat. She didn't have to turn around to see just who had walked through the door.

Those calculated footsteps were getting closer, each deliberate step sending a jolt of fear through her veins; the knot of dread from earlier this morning returning and wringing itself in her gut.

 _Calm down,_ she told herself. _There are people all around you – he can't possibly do anything to you here._

Abigail heard some men acknowledge their leader by his name, others by the word 'boss'.

… _Unless he calls you away._

Biting the inside of her cheek, Abigail adjusted her posture and tried not to be bothered by the man who came to stand beside her table. She looked to Tom, but his gaze was lowered to his tray.

"And how are our lovebirds doing this fine day?" he crowed in amusement, letting Lucille drop to his side. "Planning the wedding yet?"

Tom laughed nervously and rubbed the back of his neck. "No, sir."

Abigail hated the way Tom immediately went into submission mode.

Negan let out a low chuckle. "Too bad. She's a fine piece of work, boy."

The underlying tone wasn't lost on her. Abigail looked up to meet Negan's gaze, schooling her features into one of indifference. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of making both Tom and herself squirm. She would obey, but she wouldn't squirm.

Negan's tongue darted out to give his bottom lip the faintest of licks. "Heard you're quite the shot now, sweetheart."

Abigail nodded. "Tom has been a great help," she said, desperate to shift the topic of conversation.

"Is that so?" he said, sparing a glance at Tom, who damn near blushed like a schoolgirl. "Hell, keep it up and you'll be going on your first run yet."

Tom practically beamed.

Negan then looked to her once more, sparing her a wink as he turned on his heel to leave. She watched as he swung Lucille back onto his shoulder and exit the mess hall.

Abigail whipped around to face Tom.

"Why are you so keen on pleasing him?"

Tom blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"You heard me," she insisted. "Why?"

Tom sighed. "Negan picked me up not too long ago," he explained. "I was on my own, nothing to my name. I had a gun with one bullet left when they found me. He took me in, promised to give my life purpose if I agreed to work for him. I just…" he hesitated, and Abigail softened her scrutinizing stare.

Tom looked to her, a flicker of sadness in his eyes. "I just want to feel useful again, you know? And if that means pleasing a man like Negan, then so be it."

* * *

"I heard what you did last night."

Abigail grimaced as she exited the bathroom, but didn't respond.

"You shouldn't have done that," Sherry continued. "I know you wanted to help that woman, Abby, but there are rules, and—"

"—don't you think I _know_ that?" Abigail snapped, throwing the towel to the floor. Sherry didn't flinch, and she sighed. "Look, I'm sorry, okay? I just…"

Abigail let out a frustrated groan, flopping down onto the bed beside her roommate and throwing her arm over her face. Her earlier interaction with Negan had left a horrible taste in her mouth, and she'd been on edge ever since. Sherry placed a comforting hand on her arm.

"I'm sorry," Abigail said again. "I just couldn't stand by and let that poor woman suffer. I'm a doctor, for fuck's sake. What was I supposed to do?"

"Nothing you weren't expected to do," Sherry said, giving her arm a rub. "But you broke the rules, and he will come for you."

"You're not helping," Abigail groaned pitifully.

Sherry giggled, despite herself. "I'm just telling the truth." Her voice then sobered. "But you need to be careful, Abby," she warned. "Negan doesn't tolerate a lot of things, especially rule breaking."

Abigail removed her arm from her face and looked at Sherry. "What do I do, Sherry?"

Her friend sighed. "I don't know, but I'll be here for you, whatever he does."

* * *

"You okay?" Tom asked, placing a hand on her shoulder as they walked toward the munition area, passing the trucks and vans that were busy being loaded with bags, guns, and men. Abigail spotted Negan nearby, supervising the load.

She shrugged his hand away and kept walking. "I'm fine, just tired."

Tom pursed his lips. "Are you su—?"

Abigail whirled around. "I said I'm _fine,_ Tom."

The hurt that flashed across his features made her gut squirm with guilt, and Abigail sighed, reaching a hand out to him. "Tom, I—"

Her apology was interrupted by Simon, who startled them both.

"Hey, kid," he said, jutting his chin out to her. "Pack your shit, we leave in ten."

Abigail's mouth fell agape as Simon walked off.

 _They want me? On a run?_

At that thought, she turned to Tom. His initial concern for her had morphed into a look of pure betrayal as he shook his head in disgust and turned on his heel to leave.

"Tom!" she called after him. "Hey – _wait!"_

But he ignored her, and disappeared into the throng of people that bustled by, leaving her feeling guilty and helpless. Through the crowd, her eyes briefly locked with Negan's, and a smirk peeled across his lips.

With a sigh, she headed back for her room, anger fuelling her every step as she entered through the double doors and bounded up the stairs.

 _That bastard! He knows how much Tom wants this,_ she thought hotly, grabbing the nearest bag and shoving whatever she could find into it, anger growing as she realized that Negan had directed that comment to him earlier on purpose.

As she shoved a change of clothes into the bag, that feeling of dread crept up on her once more, stilling her movements.

 _He's done this on purpose,_ she realized with quiet horror, sitting back on her haunches. _He's caused a rift in my friendship with Tom, and now he's taking me away where Sherry won't be able to get to me if I need her._

If Abigail hadn't regretted her actions from the night before, then she sure as Hell did now. There's no telling what he could possibly have planned, and that frightened her. Her aim was still in need of improvement, and she hadn't had much experience in scavenging for supplies; being a doctor meant you stayed behind a lot of the time.

This could only mean one thing, and whatever it was, it wasn't going to be pleasant.

Briefly, she considered leaving a note for Sherry, but time was ticking. She'd already fucked up once, and she didn't need another strike on her record.

Hoping that Sherry would quickly realize what was going on, Abigail placed a few more things into the bag and headed out the door.

Men had finished loading supplies into the truck when she exited the building, and were beginning to hop into the vehicles one by one. Keeping her head held high, she headed over to where Negan and his men stood, eyes defiant as she slung the pack over her shoulder, her grip on the strap so tight that he fingernails dug into her palm.

Giving her a once over, Negan inclined his head to a nearby van.

"You're with me," he said, turning on his heel.

Reluctantly, Abigail followed, heart hammering in her chest as he climbed into the driver's side. With one last, longing glance behind her, she sighed and reached for the handle.

Abigail removed her pack and placed it on her lap as she closed the door. Lucille was immediately in front of her. She looked to Negan, despite herself.

"Hold this."

Carefully, she slid her pack to the floor, and Lucille was gently placed in her lap. The engine then started up with a roar, and Abigail watched as the gate opened, ignoring the barbed wire poking through the fabric of her pants.

They exited the compound, Negan deftly moving the vehicle through the gates and onto the beaten path that eventually lead to a paved road. Two trucks moved in front of them, followed by two other vans behind them. The knot of dread only grew as the Sanctuary quickly faded into the distance.

After driving for ten minutes, Negan hadn't said a word.

And Abigail felt _suffocated_ under the weight of his presence.

Were it not for the thrumming of the engine and the crackling of the radio he had strapped to his belt, she was sure that she would have gone insane. She kept her arms crossed tightly across her chest, high enough so that she wouldn't have to touch Lucille.

The bat felt like a thousand pounds on her lap. Every jolt, every turn, and Lucille only poked her harder, as if daring her to touch her. But she refused.

Another eight minutes passed, Abigail's eyes trained on the analogue clock on the middle of the dashboard. She could feel Negan staring at her.

"Shit, sweetheart," he said. "Lighten up. Lucille won't bite."

Releasing a breath she hadn't even realized she was holding, Abigail slowly let one hand come to rest on her handle, flinching at the surprising smoothness of her coat that contrasted with the ugly barbed wire wrapped around her head. Carefully, she curled her fingers around the handle.

Negan chuckled. "Pretty, ain't she?"

Abigail didn't respond.

Silence came over the van once more. Sparing another glance down at her lap, Abigail's stomach churned uncomfortably. Lucille lay there, taunting her.

Breathing out a shaky sigh, Abigail released her grip and folded her arms over her chest. She spared a quick side glance at Negan, whose gaze was fixed onto the road in front of him, one hand loosely gripping the steering wheel while the other rested on the gear stick.

Suddenly, the car began to slow down. Looking around, Abigail realized that they'd come to a stop in front of a row of abandoned houses. A large tree stood proudly in the front yard of the closest house, casting a deep shadow over the street.

The engine was shut off, and Abigail flinched as Negan carefully removed Lucille from her lap and exited the van. Reaching for her pack, she followed suit, slinging it over her shoulder as her feet met the ground.

"All right, gentlemen!" Negan announced, earning the attention of his men. "Standard procedure; clear and search."

They all nodded, beginning to make their way around, and Abigail began to make her way to the first house.

"Abigail."

She stopped and turned. Negan was waiting expectantly, Lucille on his shoulder. He stepped forward, reaching into the back of his pants and held out a gun, and pointed his beloved weapon in the direction of the backyard of the nearest house. "Front and centre. Now move."

Adjusting her pack, she took the gun from his hand and began to walk, the hair standing up on the back of her neck as she heard his footsteps behind her.

The usual warm hand of the sun was a harsh slap on her back as they walked in silence, Negan following closely behind. Abigail's heart was racing, adrenaline beginning to thrum through her veins; being around Negan tended to have that effect on her. Dutifully, she ignored him and tried to keep an eye out for the undead, eyes moving left and right, ears straining to hear for any sudden movements. While she may have not had much experience going on scavenging runs, she had been on her own long enough to know what sounds and movements to look for.

She swallowed thickly, finger dancing over the trigger.

 _You could do it, you know,_ that small voice in the back of her head whispered. _You could turn around right now, put a bullet between his eyes and make a run for the truck._

It was too easy, the more rational part of her mind quickly concluded before she could entertain the thought any further. Even though they were very much alone at the moment, with the other men scouting the rest of the houses down the street, it would be an incredibly stupid move. Negan would overpower her in the blink of an eye, even if she did manage to put a bullet in him first. Plus, the sound of a gunshot would most likely draw out the undead.

As they entered the backyard, she spotted a shed in the far back corner.

Abigail stopped and turned to look at Negan, who only acknowledged her silent question with a slight nod of his head. Keeping the gun raised, Abigail moved carefully, cursing as she nearly tripped over a rock.

 _Crack!_

Suddenly, Abigail fell forward, white-hot pain exploding up the side of her leg. She landed hard on her elbows but quickly rolled to her side to clutch at her leg, cursing and howling in pain, eyes wrenched shut.

Through the pain, she opened her eyes to see Negan standing over her, gun pointed directly between her eyes.

* * *

 **I apologize for the lack of Negan in the previous chapter. This story is from my OC's point of view, after all, and so it's understood that she obviously won't be with him at every second of the day unless something happened that made it that way. However, I _can_ promise you a lot more Negan from now on!**

 **As always, let me know what you guys think!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Fear and Desperation**

Chapter 5

* * *

Abigail clutched at the side of her leg with both hands, her features twisted in pain as her howls died into choked gasps and whimpered cries through gritted teeth. Looking down at her leg, her stomach twisted in fear at the alarming amount of blood that had already coated her hands and that continued to stain the side of her pants.

"I gotta say, I'm disappointed in you, sweetheart."

Abigail's eyes snapped up once again, moving from the menacing glint of the barrel of the gun to Negan's hardened gaze. That cruel mirth that was ever-present in his piercing eyes had now morphed into something much more sinister and dangerous.

And then that chilling smile swept across his face, slowly reaching the corners of his eyes as he lowered the gun to his side. Negan went to take a step forward, and Abigail scrambled backwards and hastily looked around for the gun that had fallen out of her grasp when he'd shot her. She spied the metal in the grass and rolled onto her stomach to reach out with her bloodstained hand, nearly crying with triumph as she fumbled with the handle and secured her finger around the trigger.

"Don't come any closer!" she screamed as she rolled back over and propped herself up on her elbow, hand shaking as she struggled to keep the gun raised.

To her relief, Negan stopped, but his smile didn't falter, and dread settled heavily in her stomach. His eyes moved from the barrel and then back to her.

"Or what?"

Abigail confidently tightened her grip, but didn't say anything.

"Go on, then," Negan urged in a low rumble, jutting his chin out. "Right between the eyes."

Abigail hesitated but didn't lower the gun. Instead, she bravely held his gaze, sucking in harsh breaths through her gritted teeth. Negan then took another step, and in a fit of panic, Abigail did the unthinkable.

She squeezed the trigger.

And to her horror, nothing happened.

The click of the empty chamber might as well have echoed like a gunshot for all the damage it had now done to her current predicament. She should have been more worried about actually having the gall to pull a trigger on Negan, of all people, as well as the repercussions for doing so; but the shrieking clash of the fight-or-flight sensation only caused her to squeeze the trigger again and again, only to receive that same empty, mocking click in return.

"Oh, Abigail," Negan crowed as he moved to close in on her. She threw the gun to the side and tried to escape, but he was much faster; his hand was quickly fisted in her hair, and she shrieked as he began to drag her toward the shed.

Abigail kicked, screamed, and dug her fingernails into his arm, but the leather of his jacket prevented her from doing any real damage, and her injured leg only made matters worse. Negan's grip was frighteningly strong, almost inhumane as he raised one leg to kick the rusted door open in one swift motion.

It swung open with a resounding crack, and Abigail cried out as she was unceremoniously thrown to the concrete floor, her head hitting the ground with a sickening smack. Horribly dazed, she rolled onto her back, vision blurring dangerously from the hit and the blood loss.

Suddenly, she was off her feet and against a wall, toes barely touching the floor and gasping for air as Negan's hand was firmly around her neck. Her vision swirled once more, stomach clenching as the remnants of her breakfast threatened to return for a second round. Her eyelids fluttered, and she could feel Negan's hot breath ghosting over her cheeks.

"While I'm impressed that you had the balls to pull a fuckin' trigger on me, that little stunt of yours still shows me that you're not on board, Abigail. And I can't have that, now can I?"

Abigail struggled to breathe, hands coming up to claw at his own, but the blood loss made her pathetically weak. Negan adjusted his grip on her neck so his fingers grasped her chin while still cutting off just enough air supply.

Negan brought his face closer. "Do you know why I shot you, Abigail?" he asked in a low voice, using his fingers to angle her chin toward him as her head lolled to the side.

"Because it's the way you _look_ at me; you've still got that same, damn look in your eye. Don't get me wrong, sweetheart – it's why I kept you alive in the first place, but I thought that by now the fundamental fact that you are mine, and that I own you, would have sunk in."

Abigail tried to speak, but her strength was slipping. Her leg was beginning to grow horribly numb, her own blood still warm against her leg, the wound still yet to clot.

"I can't take you back knowing that you aren't ready to co-operate. However, it would be a damn shame to waste a potentially valuable asset such as yourself. See, doctors are hard to come by these days, and I need all the people I can get. Do you understand that?"

Abigail managed a nod, but she gasped as he only tightened his grip.

"Here's the thing – I don't think you do," he growled, eyes fierce as he willed her to hold his gaze. "I can still see it – even as you're bleeding out all over the fuckin' floor, you're _still_ lookin' at me like that, and as I said, I simply can't have that."

Negan then reached behind him and pulled the gun from the back of his pants. Abigail's eyes widened in horror, but she was still too weak to move. She shut her eyes and whimpered as the cool metal of the barrel was pressed underneath her jaw.

"But lucky for you, I don't enjoy killing women."

Abigail flinched as the gun went off three times, ears ringing at the proximity. She opened her eyes to see the gun pointed in the direction of the open door.

"As for men," he laughed, shoving the gun back into his pants, "I could waste them all fuckin' night – but at the end of the day, Abigail my dear, you have yet to show me that you're _really_ ready to co-operate."

Negan suddenly released his grip, and Abigail crumpled to a heap on the floor, crying out as she landed on her injured leg, clutching her throat as she coughed and sputtered. Too weak to hold herself up, Abigail used the last of her strength to lean herself against the wall, leg stretched out.

"You have until sunset to get me my gun and drag your sorry ass back to the Sanctuary, and _then_ we will see if you're ready to co-operate," Negan bit out as he headed toward the door, Lucille coming to rest on his shoulder. He then stopped and slightly turned his head to address her once more. "Do _not_ keep me waiting," he added in a low voice, tone thick with venom, "because I will find you, and I _will_ kill you."

Abigail watched as he passed over the threshold and disappeared back into the backyard, and she let her head fall back against the wall as she sighed in defeat.

"Oh, and by the way," he called back to her, "you'd better get moving. Those dead pricks ain't gonna stop themselves!"

Her eyes shot open, terror flooding her veins as the realization quickly dawned on her – those gun shots weren't a warning, they were to draw in the undead.

But before she could blink, two of the undead suddenly appeared in the doorway, hands outstretched as they lumbered closer, snarling and gurgling at the scent of fresh blood.

 _Get up, get up, get up!_

With a desperate cry, Abigail pushed herself against the wall and launched for the closest, hands coming to grasp its face as she drove her thumbs into its sockets. It hissed and attempted to scratch her, but she twisted their bodies as they tumbled to the ground and landed so her knee drove into the side of its skull, her weight effectively crushing it with a sickening crack.

The second took a swipe at her, narrowly missing her face, and Abigail scrambled backwards, eyes searching for something to defend herself with, the searing pain in her leg overshadowed by the adrenaline pumping through her veins.

Abigail spotted some tools hanging on the far wall, and with a swift kick of her good leg, she sent the second undead to fall backwards, which effectively bought her some time. With a groan, she stood once more and hobbled over to the wall, pulse quickening as she could hear more of them closing in on her.

In her daze, Abigail grabbed the nearest object – something heavy with a long wooden handle – and used her body weight to swing the tool outward, the dull object connecting with the second one with a satisfying _thud,_ and it was sent to the floor. Gripping the wooden handle with both hands, she dropped to her knees, bringing the heavy end of the tool down on its head with a crack.

 _Keep moving… get up… can't let them in…_

Abigail needed to get to the door and barricade herself inside so she could tend to her leg immediately, lest she bleed out – which she guessed would be only mere minutes. With every move that she made, every step and every twist, the clotted blood would begin to leak again, causing her to lose even more blood and her vision to blur dangerously. And despite her extensive medical knowledge, Abigail knew that she wouldn't be able to move around much longer, and that if she didn't stabilize the bleeding quickly, she was going to die.

With a grunt, Abigail used the wooden weapon to steady herself as she stood to her feet once more and limped toward the shed door. Another handful of the undead were getting closer, but with a quick succession of steps, the door was closed, and to her relief, there was a heavy latch which could lock the door from the inside.

Once the latch was secured, Abigail sunk to the floor, panting and bordering on unconsciousness. Her vision was blackening, and her breaths were growing more shallow by the second. The undead were pounding against the metal door, their collective weight making the small shed shudder under the impact. If she didn't hurry, and if enough of them pushed against the walls, the whole thing would soon come down.

Wiping the sweat from her forehead, she spared a glance down at her leg.

"Fuck… oh fuck, _fuck…"_ she groaned, stomach dropping. _"Shit…"_

Her left pant leg was absolutely drenched in blood – so much that it made her stomach churn. The material clung to her skin, and Abigail briefly hesitated in reaching for the singed hole where the bullet had torn through; she'd lost much more blood than originally anticipated.

With a sharp tug, she threaded her fingers into the tear and ripped the bottom half of her pant leg off, twisting it around her hand before securing it over the wound in a tight knot; the blood that had soaked into the material would effectively hold the knot in place until she got somewhere safe. The bullet was still submerged in her flesh, but she hadn't the resources to remove it safely.

She needed to administer proper medical attention, and there was only one place she knew that had the proper equipment.

"Son of a bitch…" Abigail spat, covering her face with her hands.

If she wanted to live, Abigail had no choice but to return to the Sanctuary. But she knew that if she returned, there would be no telling what Negan had planned for her. And if she didn't return, she was going to bleed out and die – and that was if Negan didn't find her first.

The shed suddenly shook, startling her. There had to be at least ten to fifteen of the undead pushing on that door, she guessed, and it would only hold for so long before their noise would attract more of them. Abigail choked out a sob of frustration, and then another, balling her fists and furiously rubbing at her eyes, chest burning hot with screams that she willed to keep in.

But she couldn't give up now – not after how hard she'd fought to stay alive. She may be bleeding out, trapped in a shed by the undead, and was at least an hour's walk from the Sanctuary, but she would be damned if she was going to let it end this way.

Blinking through the tears, Abigail looked to the ceiling and took several deep breaths.

 _You can do this… just breathe,_ she told herself.

Another shudder followed by the groan of buckling metal brought Abigail back to reality as she saw the walls begin to bend and bow underneath the weight of the undead.

If she didn't escape now, she was done for.

With great effort, Abigail slowly pulled herself to her feet. Black spots danced across her vision, but she pushed on, moving to the wall where she'd found her earlier weapon that she'd used to defend herself from the two undead that now lay lifeless on the concrete floor.

She braced her shoulder against the wall, granting her injured leg a brief rest as she looked for something sharp and light enough to both use and carry with her.

Near the top of the wall hung a curved, rusted blade – but with no handle. Below it was a hammer; too risky to use since the curved head could easily become wedged in one of the undead and unable to be removed. There were other tools, such as wrenches, and a lot of empty spaces where other tools once hung, as well as a reel of fishing line.

Reaching for the rusted blade, hammer and fishing line, Abigail used the string to tie the rusted blade to the end of the hammer, even going as far as to tear her other pant leg off and securing it around the junction where the blade was attached to the hammer.

The noise of the undead grew louder still, and Abigail knew she only had minutes before the backyard would be overrun with them.

Tapping the blade against the ground, the knot appeared to hold tight. Moving over to the two undead, she sunk the blade into the nearest one's head, satisfied in the easy way it sunk into its flesh. She pulled it back out, and it came away with ease, the weapon still intact.

Abigail turned towards the latched door, heart hammering hard in her chest as the raspy cries and scratches of the undead turned into a rushing sound in her ears. She was damn near terrified, and possibly quite close to death, but it was now or never.

* * *

The night was quiet; not a damn thing out of place as the breeze caressed the leaves of the trees as if touching a lover, and the warm air of the night as calm as the breathing of a newborn infant.

And he hated every fucking second of it.

His nerves were practically ablaze, the anticipation churning hotly in his gut. His fingers curled and uncurled around the handle of his precious Lucille in impatience. He tapped her once, and then twice against the pavement, eyes fixed on the darkening distance, searching through the stillness.

"You think she'll show up?" Simon asked gruffly, folding his arms over his chest as he came to stand beside him, face twisted in doubt.

 _I know she will._

Oh, yes, Abigail would definitely show up – _that_ he knew for sure. There was no doubt in his mind that he would soon see that pretty little thing drag her beaten and bloodied ass back to the Sanctuary – back to him. Their little… confrontation back in the shed practically cemented that fact even before she would come to realize it herself. It was that look in her eyes, he knew; the particularly defiant one that she didn't even know she had that told him just as much.

Negan let his tongue dart out to give his lips the faintest of licks. He hadn't expected her to be so damn resilient, especially given the way she'd pathetically thrown herself at his feet that night, and nor did he expect her to so blatantly disregard his authority and risk her life to save that woman's infected leg.

"We got a live one!"

Negan straightened up ever so slightly, eyes coming to rest on a dark figure that came lumbering from within the trees.

"Hold your fire," he commanded, walking toward the gate.

Silence fell once more, and through it could be heard the dull rasping of one of the undead. Negan watched as it came closer, feet dragging against the asphalt. As it neared, his lips curled into a sneer.

He then raised his hand, and watched as it was brought down with a single shot that was barely a whisper.

Negan swung Lucille onto his shoulder, wringing his fingers around her handle once more, the leather of his glove crinkling underneath the pressure. Anticipation made his balls itch, but the wait would certainly be worth it.

While he enjoyed watching her squirm underneath his thumb, it was only a taste of what he had in store for her once she would walk back through that gate. Defiance was something he could only tolerate for so long. Hell, he wouldn't deny the perverse enjoyment he received in watching that spark ignite, but what he enjoyed far more was watching them _break._

Typically, it didn't take much to break a person – once you knew their weaknesses. Negan was fairly adept at reading people, and knew just which buttons to push, which raw nerves to expose, in order to watch their defiant spirit eventually crumble underneath his touch. Oh, yes – he would enjoy slipping through the cracks in her fragile exterior, and he would most certainly relish in getting under her skin and enjoy breaking her from within.

"Sir, another one!"

Negan watched as another figure emerged. He squinted, hard; the growing darkness making it difficult to identify any familiar features. That same limp was there, as was the sluggish movement the undead often exhibited, but something about it was… off.

The familiar click of the safety broke his train of thought, and as one of his men shouldered his rifle, it was then that he saw the bloodied weapon clutched in its hand.

A single shot pierced the air, narrowly missing her with a sharp _twang._

"Hold your fire, god damn it!"

Negan marched toward the front gate, nose coming within a hair's breadth of the bars, the anticipation in his gut churning excitedly.

She was barely recognizable underneath the blood that bathed every inch of her skin in a delicious coat of deep cherry red. He watched her shuffle closer, head hung low, her steps short but nevertheless determined, and he licked his lips once more as they peeled back into a smirk.

Abigail was mere feet away now, and he swallowed thickly as she let the weapon slip from her hand and land with a harsh clatter on the asphalt. Her hair clung to her face and neck in a way that reminded him of a woman in the throes of passion, and he could barely contain his triumph as she edged ever closer.

Slowly, she raised her hand and her footsteps came to a halt, her fingers curling around one of the bars as he intently watched the other hand reach around to the back of her pants.

The familiar glint of metal winked up at him as she let the gun unceremoniously fall to the ground, the harsh clang of metal effectively breaking the otherwise palpable silence that engulfed all who were present.

And then, she looked up at him.

And he saw it.

Underneath the blood and through the dirt and grime was that same brave flicker defiance that screamed and glistened fiercely behind her eyes. While she appeared to be moments from passing out and perhaps minutes from death, she was not broken – not yet at least.

And never in his life had Negan ever looked so forward to destroying something.

"Welcome back, sweetheart."

* * *

 **So, Negan ain't fucking around, am I right? I hope you all enjoyed a little taste of his point-of-view – it comes as a gift to you guys since I'm only able to post one update this week. The combination of a lack of Negan in this week's episode coupled with the homework I must do really puts a damper on my muse.**

 **Lastly, I'd like to thank a few special people for their unwavering support thus far – the first is** _ **AylaWilson16**_ **for fangirling and helping me with my ideas;** _ **ZombifyMeCapn**_ **for her consistently helpful reviews, and the ever-so-lovely guest reviewer** _ **BananaChips**_ **who seriously needs to make an account so I can thank him/her properly for their lengthy and sweet-as-sugar reviews!**

 **As always, leave your thoughts behind!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Fear and Desperation**

Chapter 6

* * *

 _What is that smell?_

Abigail opened her eyes and saw nothing but darkness. It stretched on forever, a deep black void of complete nothingness. Everything was quiet, the air so unbearably still that she could hear her own blood rushing in her ears, her veins throbbing with each pulse. Wriggling her toes, she could feel the ground beneath her feet; she brought in a deep breath and heard the air rush into her lungs, but sight was still completely lost to her.

Bravely, she called out into the darkness, her voice ringing out before fading into a haunting echo that made her gut momentarily clench with fear. Her call was met with that same stifling silence, yet the smell – so achingly familiar – was only getting stronger, but she couldn't pinpoint its location. Her eyes failed to adjust, the inability to focus making her head swim. Why couldn't she see anything?

 _Where am I?_

Cautiously, Abigail took a step forward, and then another. She held her hands out in front of her for security – or defence, whichever need would come first – her feet shuffling in slow, shallow steps.

Again, Abigail decided to call out.

She stopped abruptly when nothing came out.

 _What the…?_

Hand coming to her throat, Abigail stopped walking and called out again, but no voice echoed, not even a squeak flitted through the stillness. She could feel the thrum of her vocal chords as she cried out again and again, louder and harder, throat ripping as she screamed against the darkness – but still no sound.

Abigail then coughed, hands coming to cover her mouth and nose, nose wrinkling in disgust. That smell – it was getting stronger by the second.

Suddenly, as if flicking on a light switch, her surroundings came into full view like a fierce knock to the side of the head. Abigail blinked rapidly, shielding her eyes from the onslaught of the bright light as she tried to adjust her gaze. She very nearly jumped out of her skin as a scream echoed, quickly followed by another. Shrill, panicked voices suddenly overcame the air, hands coming to protect her ears as she squeezed her eyes shut.

The screaming only grew louder, more intense, and Abigail opened her eyes, surprised to find herself on her knees. There was that bright light, the same shrill voices still piercing the air; that awful smell, and—

Blood.

There was so much _blood._

Abigail's eyes went wide, time and everything around her coming to a complete halt, panic reaching in and gripping her chest as she looked at her upturned hands, which were shaking and stained that deep, ugly red that constantly haunted her dreams. Yet despite its warm, sticky consistency, Abigail felt cold – so utterly and horribly _cold._ She then looked up and around and saw to her horror that it was _everywhere_ – harsh splatters painted the walls in panicked streaks while darker pools dotted the floor; that harsh tang of copper burning the insides of her nose and making her eyes water.

Everything around her was a hideous contrast of red and white and screaming voices that seemed close yet so far away at the same time – almost muffled. Someone was screaming at her – or, wait, was that her own voice? – but she couldn't make out the words. However, what really made her body go rigid with that icy coldness was the aching familiarity of this place. She remembered the panic, the fear that consumed her every fibre, her hands pressed together and furiously pumping—

With a jolt, Abigail woke up.

She stayed on her back, absolutely rigid, breathing in harshly through her nose as she waited for the horrific images to fade away. She clenched her fists, desperate to control her breathing. Her chest was tight and temples were pulsing hotly; when was the last time she'd dreamed so vividly?

After a few moments, Abigail let out a long sigh. With great effort, she slowly pulled herself up into a sitting position. The familiar kiss of handcuffs wasn't lost on her, but she ignored them, instead letting her eyes fall to her upturned hands, which were still coated in blood from her perilous escape from the backyard shed.

She flexed her fingers, watching as the dried blood of the undead cracked and peeled, revealing her skin underneath. Hot tears suddenly stung at the corners of her eyes, but she sucked in a shaky breath and cast her gaze to the ceiling, folding her arms close to her stomach.

 _I will not cry. I will not cry._

But the tears quickly fell, despite her willingness to keep them in. The first tear trickled down over her cheek and to her chin while the second seeped into the corner of her dried mouth. Abigail sniffled and let her head hang low, gritting her teeth against the sobs that threatened to break free. She hunched over, cradling her hands and arms against her belly, and squeezed her eyes shut.

Abigail sat like that for a moment, her sniffles and choked breaths echoing throughout the room until she regained control over her emotions. She refused to cry if she could help it, but wouldn't deny the immediate relief it brought; the tension in her shoulders eased somewhat, and the hot pulsing of her temples began to slowly ebb away.

Blinking through the tears, Abigail noticed that her leg had been patched up while she'd been unconscious, though the soiled bandage told her that it hadn't been changed in hours, perhaps even days. She ran her fingers over the wound, wincing at the memory of Negan shooting her like an animal and leaving her to die. Abigail could feel the tentative licks of rage that boiled underneath her skin, but they were quickly extinguished by her exhaustion.

Abigail brought the knee of her uninjured leg up to her cheek, letting out another sigh.

She couldn't remember much of how she managed to escape – it was all a blur. All Abigail could remember was the adrenaline as she thrashed her way through the undead, swinging her makeshift weapon around in a blind fury. And while she'd been certain that one of them had bitten her at one point, a quick inspection of her arms and legs assured her that her skin was untouched – for the most part, at least. After battling through the horde, she then began the long, tiring journey back to the Sanctuary, which felt like days, wherein it was only mere hours, and she lost count of the amount of times she blacked out and nearly collapsed onto the road. But somehow, by some miracle, she'd made it back.

To him; to Negan.

Abigail then remembered the chilling look on Negan's face as she brought herself at the gate; the only vivid piece of information that she could recollect. There was… something awful in those dark eyes that unnerved her down to her very core. Pleased wasn't even the right word to describe how he looked; it was a perverted and twisted mix of satisfaction and triumph, and it was the last thing she remembered before everything had gone black.

She shivered, despite the warm temperature of the room. What would he do to her now? What _possible_ use could he have for her after all this? It was a question that she knew would be answered sooner rather than later, and the anticipation made her gut clench uncomfortably. She was sure that she'd eliminated any possibility of gaining his trust for a long time – and that was if she managed to stay alive for that long, or if he was kind enough to keep her alive for that long, anyway.

The possibility of making her become a wife to punish her briefly crossed her mind, but Abigail quickly pushed away the dark thoughts of Negan pressed on top of her and turned her attention to the handcuffs on her wrist.

 _Well, clearly, I can't be trusted._

Looking to the window, she guessed it would have to be somewhere in the late afternoon, judging by the semi-transparent light on the far wall and the warm temperature of the room, but the lack of a clock or calendar meant that Abigail had no idea how much time had passed since she left with Negan that day. The rest of the room was empty – not a cupboard or piece of equipment in sight. A lone chair sat by the foot of her bed, its leather pad worn and frayed, and Abigail had to wonder who would be coming to visit her.

Sherry – possibly – she thought, but Abigail wasn't entirely sure if her roommate even knew where she was, let alone what had happened to her. The only other person she could think of was Tom, but the clear look of betrayal on his face during their last encounter told her that he wouldn't exactly be keen on seeing her any time soon. Other than the chair and her bed, there was nothing else.

Abigail sighed and let her eyes fall to her bandaged leg. She suddenly realized how thirsty she was, licking her dried lips in an attempt to moisten them and wincing at the taste of copper; she forgot that she was still coated in the blood of the undead, the only clean part of her body being the bandaged area on her leg. The smell of sweat and dried blood made her scrunch her nose, but she would have to endure until she could take a shower – whenever that would be, she thought dismally.

Stifling a yawn, the brunette laid back down on the bed, exhausted. Despite the uncertainty of her future, Abigail needed to rest; she'd need all the strength she could get if she were to be facing Negan once more.

* * *

When Abigail woke, it was still daylight outside – much to her dismay. She let her head thump back down onto the uncomfortable bed with a sigh. How long had she been asleep for? It felt like only hours, but it could have been easily more than a day as well, and without a clock, it was just impossible to tell. And just how long were they planning to keep her in here, anyway?

With a grunt, Abigail pulled herself into a sitting position. She was positively parched, feeling as if she had cotton in her mouth, her temples pulsing with the impending and familiar headache of dehydration. Feeling no more rested than the last time she was awake, Abigail decided that she couldn't take another minute in the room, and carefully swung her legs over the side of the bed, hands coming to grip the edge.

She doubted that the door would be unlocked, knowing how things worked around here, and the more rational part of her mind tried to convince her that she should just stay awake until someone eventually came to check on her, but she nonetheless planted her bare feet on the ground and let her eyes fall to the door.

Moving slowly, Abigail eventually reached the door, her injured leg giving her surprisingly little trouble. But as she reached for the handle, it suddenly began to turn.

Stumbling backwards as the door swung open, Abigail fell onto the floor, hard.

Cursing under her breath, Abigail looked up to see who had knocked her onto her ass, only to find her eyes locked with a set of familiar dark brown.

"Glad to see you're up," Negan commented, giving her a once over. "Get enough rest?"

Abigail just sat there, frozen, heart hammering in her chest. She hadn't expected to see him so damn soon – and just why was he here, anyway?

When she didn't answer – out of shock, if anything – Negan, to her utter surprise, held his gloved hand out to her.

Abigail couldn't help the distrusting frown that passed over her brow as she remained on the floor. A moment of silence passed, Negan's hand still outstretched to her. She let her eyes fall to his hand, then up to his eyes, and back to his hand once again. Sensing no ulterior motives, and coupled with the desire to get out of the room, Abigail carefully reached her hand out, slipping it into his own.

His hand dwarfed her own, and with little effort, he hauled her to her feet. She stumbled slightly, his hand quickly coming to her arm to steady her. A thousand questions were running through her mind – why was he suddenly helping her, why the lack of malice in his tone, and, more importantly, what was he was going to do with her?

She wanted to ask, the questions on the tip of her tongue, but this time she listened to the more rational part of her mind and kept her mouth shut. She swallowed thickly and exited the room in silence, Negan's hand splayed on her back, his fingertips guiding her left and right with gentle pushes as they made their way to the more familiar part of the Sanctuary. Abigail could have sighed in relief as she recognised some of the rooms and hallways, but it did little to quell her thoughts as they made their way to another building – one she hadn't been in before. She was overcome with an insurmountable amount of dread that coiled hotly in the pits of her stomach like an angry snake, and she began to sweat, already feeling the palms of her hands going clammy.

They walked for a few more minutes, Abigail keeping her eyes intently focused ahead of her, before they came to a stop in front of a large set of dark wooden doors that seemed out of place compared to the rest of the Sanctuary. The dread thickened and coiled even deeper.

Abigail flinched as his arm reached past her to open the door, and her mouth nearly slackened in shock.

The room was something she hadn't expected, the bed being the first thing that caught her eye. It was large and decorated with a plush looking grey comforter and half a dozen pillows. The walls were also the same shade of dark grey, as was the matching couch set that sat a few feet in front of her. To put it simply, the room appeared to be completely unaware of what was going on just outside these walls.

Despite her initial shock, the realization that this must be _Negan's room_ suddenly dawned on her, and she stiffened considerably as the man himself walked past her, leaning Lucille against the bed. He then turned to face her, eyes sparkling with mirth as he took in her current state.

"Lighten up, kid. If I wanted to kill you, I would have done it by now." Negan then placed himself down on the couch that was facing her. He leaned back and let his elbows rest on the low back, posture relaxed – which only served to fray on her nerves.

"Then why haven't you?" The words were out of her mouth before she could stop herself.

Negan regarded her for a moment. "Let's get to know you a little better before we get into that," he replied. "But first, get your ass into the bathroom and clean yourself up – ain't gonna have you messin' up my nice couches."

Abigail nearly whined at the possibility of a shower – but to shower in _his_ bathroom? She would rather set herself on fire.

He must have read her thoughts. "Don't be such a princess," he snapped. "Now get your ass in there before I make you. Unless you need help getting undressed?"

She didn't miss the suggestive drawl in his voice, and Abigail quickly walked by in a huff and entered the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind her. Leaning back against the door, she sunk to the floor with a shaky sigh, hands coming to comb furiously through her matted hair.

Abigail was hopelessly confused, to put it simply. Negan was an incredibly difficult man to read, and now, this complete one-eighty personality flip had her head swimming; gone was the malice she had come to associate with him, and it was replaced by something that made her nervous. She sighed again, furiously rubbing her eyes with the base of her palms, grimacing at the dried blood that cracked underneath the pressure.

She refused to undress, uncertain if the man in the other room were waiting right behind the door, or if he were still sitting on the couch where she'd left him. The very real possibility of an attempt to rape her caused tears to spring to the corners of her eyes, and Abigail brought her hand to her mouth to stifle her sobs. His offer to help her undress had only made the possibility grow more likely, and Abigail quickly scrambled to her feet, crying in relief as there appeared to be a lock on the bathroom door.

After checking the lock three times, Abigail walked over to the sink, hands coming to grasp the rim, knuckles burning white. She was half-tempted to walk back out, still dirty, but that would only serve to agitate Negan – and after all that had happened, that was the _last_ thing she wanted to do. But the fear of being caught off-guard and overpowered while in the shower cemented her feet to the ground, legs growing weak and chin trembling.

However, she _really_ needed a shower – she felt dirty and disgusting, and for some bizarre reason, Negan was offering her his own resources without so much as a second thought.

After a few minutes, Abigail managed to compose herself, the coil of dread still wound tightly in her gut. Her nerves were positively shot now, and she wondered if she even had the strength to scrub the blood and dirt from her body. Looking around, she spied a clean towel and a set of neatly folded clothes on the counter as well as a first-aid kit. She sighed. Negan had most certainly planned to interrogate her, and it appeared that he wouldn't be letting her out of his sight any time soon.

She turned on the water and moved back to the bathroom door, pressing her ear against the wood, straining to hear any kind of movement on the other side. After thirty or so seconds, Abigail concluded that he hadn't moved from his place on the couch, and was now determined to scrub herself clean in record time so that she wouldn't be caught unaware.

The shower, while effective in rinsing her body of the blood and grime, did little to soothe her frayed nerves. Carefully, she unwrapped the bandage on her leg, wringing it out as she gently scrubbed away the dried blood around the stitches. Once the last of the soap was washed down the drain, Abigail shut of the water and wrapped the towel around her body, quickly stepping out to redress her wound. It took only a few minutes, and she dried the excess water before putting on the clothes provided for her – a simple pair of slightly tattered black jeans and a faded blue button up shirt with sleeves. A pair of shoes also lay next to the toilet, and she slipped them on, securing and resecuring the laces.

Taking a glance at her reflection, Abigail ran the drier parts of the towel through her damp hair and prepared to exit the bathroom. Taking a deep breath, she unlocked the door, eyes immediately latching onto the back of Negan's head – thankful that he'd remained exactly where she'd left him. He seemed content to sit there, not bothering to look behind him as she exited the bathroom and reluctantly headed back to the couch.

She felt his eyes wandering over her freshly washed form, but she ignored the uncomfortable tingle that raced down her spine and met his gaze. The indifference in his eyes made her nervous.

Negan then leaned forward, reaching for a decanter and pouring its honey-coloured contents into two tumblers that she hadn't noticed were there before. He took one for himself and brought the glass to his lips, gaze still fixed on her.

"Thirsty?"

Deciding that to obey would get her out of here faster, Abigail reached for the glass, trying to steady her shaking hand. When she mimicked his action, and brought the glass to her lips, the familiar sting of alcohol filtering into her nose, she watched as he downed his in one quick motion and set the glass back down onto the table, breathing out a sigh. Abigail copied him, grimacing as the liquid burned down her throat and did absolutely nothing to satisfy her thirst. But he knew that, of course.

Abigail kept the glass in her lap, finding security in holding onto something that could also be a potential weapon if their little chat suddenly went sour. Her thumbnail picked over the intricate carving of the glass as she waited for him to speak.

 _What are you going to do to me?_

He seemed to be mulling over his next choice of words as he studied her, as if trying to read her thoughts. She must have been sitting ramrod straight, positively rigid, since he broke their gaze and let out a low chuckle.

"Relax, sweetheart. Like I said, if I wanted to kill you, I would have done it already. Hey, I could have killed you the second you walked in, or just now in the bathroom – but then where's the fun in that?" He paused, as if waiting for s reaction. "That being said," he went on, "I want to get to know you a little better, Abigail," he said suddenly, leaning forward to that his elbows rested on his knees.

Not exactly the words she'd been expecting.

"Why?" she asked, unable to help herself.

"You're a doctor, right?" he said, ignoring her question.

Abigail pursed her lips and nodded.

Negan poured himself another drink. "Qualified?"

She shook her head. "No."

"Why?"

"The world turned three days before my final medical licence exam," she explained.

Negan seemed to consider her answer. "How old are you?" Clearly, he wasn't willing to trust her story just yet, despite it being true.

"Twenty-five."

"You skipped a few years then, huh?" he said, more to himself than to her, downing his glass.

Abigail didn't answer, and let her gaze fall to her hands, the effort of holding his gaze wearing her down both physically and emotionally. But she wasn't sure what kind of information he was after, or what exactly he wanted to know, but she remained on her toes and would do her best to keep her answers as vague yet informative as possible.

She just wanted to get out of here; the pressure of his gaze and the scrutiny of his questions were beginning to be exhausting.

"Where did you go when the world turned?"

Abigail lifted her gaze to meet his. A simple enough question, she supposed.

"Somewhere, anywhere safe," she shrugged. "It all happened so fast; I don't really remember much of how it all went down, or how we managed to get away."

That piqued his interest. "You had others?"

"I did," she replied. "They're gone now."

Silence fell over the room, and Abigail found the dread beginning to slip away. Whatever his plan was, it didn't involve hurting her physically – that much was certain – but why all the questions?

"You married?"

Abigail stilled, but quickly recovered.

"No, I'm not."

"Boyfriend?

"No."

Negan chuckled. "Ever been with a man before, then?"

Abigail glared at him, and he laughed. "Easy, sweetheart. Just having a little fun, is all. Yeesh, I can almost _feel_ those daggers you're shootin' at me." He laughed again. "You and Carson look like you both could use a good screw. Are all doctors this uptight?"

"Just the ones that get shot and left to die," she bit out.

"Shit, maybe we should play a little Doctor ourselves right now," he quipped, ignoring her bite. "What do you say, sweetheart? Want to take care of me for the night?"

Abigail could feel her anger rising, and she slammed her glass down onto the table. "I say that if you've got nothing else interesting to ask me, then I'm leaving. I'm not going to sit here and take this from you." She then moved to get up, but his hand on her arm startled her.

"Calm the hell down," he said, voice dangerously low. "You don't get to decide when I'm finished with you – _I_ do." Negan then released his grip. "Sit down."

Doing as she was told, Abigail reluctantly sat back down on the chair. She watched as he poured himself yet another drink, eyes focused on her as he drank it slowly this time.

"Tell you what," he said, placing the glass down, "I'll let you ask me one question – and _one_ question only – provided you let me ask one first, and then you're free to leave."

Abigail took a calming breath. "Fine. What is it?"

The amused twinkle reappeared in Negan's eye, and it made Abigail uncomfortable. He seemed pleased with himself as he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, perfectly poised to voice his next question.

"You ever lost a patient?"

The silence that followed was suffocating. Abigail went still, and horrifyingly so; the flashing images of red and white returning and making her vision swim.

Negan watched as her eyes suddenly clouded over, her anger immediately disappearing. It was as if someone flicked a switch, and he knew that he'd struck a nerve. He watched as her eyes fell to her lap, her hair falling in front of her face, shielding her from his view. A moment passed before she looked up to meet his gaze, coldness in her eyes.

"No." Her tone was steady, and they both knew she was lying, but he could practically see the truth hidden in her eyes.

"Bullshit," he hissed. "Don't lie to me; how many have you lost?"

She looked away, clearly uncomfortable. "You said one more question. I answered your question, now just drop it." Her voice was trembling now, and he would admit he was a little stunned at her desperation to end the topic of conversation, but he couldn't help himself. She looked determined to hold her resolve, but he could see that it was crumbling fast.

"You're not exactly in any position to be making demands, Abigail," he sneered. "We both know you're lying, so how about you cut the crap and tell me right now: _how many."_

He could see her eyes glisten with tears, yet she held firm. Abigail appeared to hesitate before she answered.

"I told you the truth," she lied again, chin tilting up slightly.

Negan scoffed, voice growing deeper, more menacing. "You can sit there all damn day and lie to me, Abigail, but—"

"—Leave it _alone,_ Negan!" she cried, voice cracking as she visibly recoiled from him. "I told you that—"

"Don't lie to me, Abigail," he said, voice carrying over her own. "Tell me how—"

"—I _told_ you, I—!"

"— _You're lying!"_ he hollered, slamming his hands down onto the table with a deafening bang, and she physically jolted at the impact. A moment passed before her eyes went wide. Abigail then covered her face with both hands, elbows coming to rest on her knees as she leaned forward.

Negan removed his hands from the table, watching as her shoulders trembled.

Abigail clenched her eyes shut, hands sliding from her face to rest on her forehead, fingers wringing into her hair. She kept her eyes firmly planted to the floor, and took in a shaky breath. Seconds ticked by slowly, the silence palpable.

"One," she suddenly piped up in a soft voice, eyes still fixed on the ground. Abigail then looked up to meet Negan's unidentifiable gaze. "Just… just one."

A cruel smirk peeled across Negan's lips, clearly pleased with himself. "Now, was that so hard?" he asked, reaching over to pour himself a fourth drink, and a second one for her. She refused it, instead letting her eyes fall to her hands once more while he drank.

"So, what's your question?" he asked after a beat of silence.

Abigail looked exhausted, defeated even. She had several questions that she wanted to ask, but opted to stick with the easiest one. After all, he got what he wanted, and now she just wanted to get out of here.

"Why didn't you just kill me?"

"You tell me," he replied. "Anyone else would have ended up as one of those dead pricks, but _you,"_ he said, pointing a finger at her, "you didn't. And I want to know how a skinny little nobody fought her way through a horde of those dead bastards with a dead leg and managed to drag her sorry ass back here all in the same night."

Abigail shrugged, but curious of his sudden train of thought, despite what had just happened. "Luck, I suppose."

She flinched at the sound of Negan's laugh. "Luck ain't got nothin' to do with it, sweetheart. See, you got something that some of my men don't even have – _guts_ – and that's something we are in short supply of. Not a lot of people could have survived what you did. Hell, I bet half my shit that even some of my own men would have ended up as one of those dead pricks."

Abigail looked up at him. "What's your point?"

"My point is, Abigail, that you don't go down easy. I won't lie and say I know why that is, but it is what it is. You're a tough little shit, and I think you're going to fit in just fine."

* * *

 **PHEW.**

 **Firstly, I am sorry for the lack of an update last week – the lack of Negan in the previous two episodes left my muse drier than a nun's vag. Secondly, I wasn't quite sure how to end this chapter, but I feel as though I've left it at a good enough place – I legit just smashed out a 4000-word assignment today, so I was surprised to also smash out a chapter as long as this! Also, I hope you enjoyed the interaction between Negan and Abigail!**

 **Thirdly, I'm going away on the 19** **th** **of December! I'll be heading overseas to Canada and the U.S. for about a month in total, so just a heads up that I may not be able to post an update while I'm gone. But inspiration tends to strike me at the most inconvenient times, so you guys might get lucky! I also plan to use my time on the long flight over and back to plan the rest of my story so that when I return, I can update on a regular schedule for you lovely people!**

 **As always, leave me your thoughts! Take care!**


	7. Chapter 7

**Fear and Desperation**

Chapter 7

* * *

In the following days and weeks, Abigail had somewhat settled in and was eventually put to work with Dr. Carson, and, according to Sherry's calendar, had officially been at the Sanctuary for about a month. It wasn't exactly a difficult job by any stretch of the imagination; her daily tasks mostly consisted of completing the morning and afternoon supply count, reorganising the cupboards and supply boxes, as well as cleaning the surgical tools – the same type of tasks she had done whilst on student placement during her studies some years ago; and the slight pulse she felt in her chest as she had methodically cleaned and organised the tools on her first day had made her chest ache with nostalgia.

And while the Sanctuary's infirmary wasn't a bustling inner-city hospital E.R. with death at every possible turn, it kept her busy enough – if only for a short while. Her only other form of excitement was either when a patient was admitted or when the scavenging groups would return with new supplies; though these events were unfortunately far and few in between and Abigail quickly found herself growing bored as the days continued to pass on slowly. Sometimes, Dr. Carson would often quiz her on different symptoms, their possible diagnoses, and various types of medications as well as their characteristics; either from his own experiences or from the few medical textbooks that he had on hand.

Abigail flinched when Dr. Carson suddenly dropped a large box on the table in front of her; she must've zone out while reading his worn out copy of an Encyclopaedia of Common Medicine Volume II for what would have to be the sixth or seventh time now that, if things continued to go as slow as they were, she'd have the whole damn thing memorized word for word by the week's end.

"What's that?" Abigail asked, closing the book as she peered curiously at the box.

Dr. Carson removed his white lab coat and haphazardly tossed it onto the back of the chair before he sat down with a sigh.

"Patient records," he answered, removing the lid. "I'd never got the chance to create a thorough system for keeping a database of our residents, nor had I a safe place to store them. But now that we do," he said, gesturing to a beat-up rusted two-drawer filing cabinet by the door that had been brought in yesterday, "I don't see why not."

Abigail watched as he then reached in and grabbed the top half of the stack of papers and placed them in front of her while taking out the remaining half for himself and tossing the empty box onto the floor beside his chair. Meanwhile, Abigail grabbed a pen and a fresh notebook from the stationary drawer and sat back down.

She reached for the first piece of slightly wrinkled paper and skimmed over its contents and saw the standard procedure of name, age, gender and ethnicity scrawled at the top of the page, followed by brief notes that appeared to be taken during a quick physical with an added note of the date and condition in which the person had arrived at the Sanctuary. Down the bottom were more notes on how this person's wounds were treated, as well as the word _allergies_ scrawled next to it with a hasty 'x' marked right beside it. According to this record, this patient had no known existing medical conditions either, and was brought in with a few minor cuts that required a couple of stitches. Other than that, this person had arrived to the Sanctuary in near perfect condition.

It was a simple system to say the least; nothing she hadn't seen before, though the layout left a lot to be desired in terms of structure.

"So, how do you want to do this?" Abigail asked as she opened her notebook, a small smile pulling at the corners of her lips at the thought of feeling somewhat useful again. While updating and sorting patient records was often considered to be the most demeaning and menial task to an ambitious med student, Abigail was just happy to have something do to other than polishing the already clean tools. And judging by the surprisingly large stack of papers, this would surely take her a few days to do – perhaps even a week if she did it carefully.

"I was thinking that we first filter the records into piles of those who are still active and those who are no longer with us," he said, picking up the first piece of paper from his pile and discarding it to the side before reaching for a second. "From there, we can sketch up a few easy to follow templates for recording and updating patient information. Once that's done, we'll rewrite them all and then alphabetize the cabinet." He then stood and retrieved his own notebook from the bench. "Oh, there's also a few new additions in the drawer by the sink, including your own record, so be sure to add those in, too."

And so, for the next hour and a half, the two doctors sat in a companionable silence, the only interruption being when Abigail had asked Dr. Carson whether a patient was still active or not. It was a little saddening to see the pile of deceased grow so quickly, but she simply chalked it down to the neglect of keeping the system up to date. By the time they were done sorting, they'd managed to get through both piles just before eleven-thirty. He then departed for lunch, though Abigail opted to stay behind and get a head start of creating some new templates for the patient records.

After putting aside a third template sketch, Abigail stood from the chair and stretched, holding her arms high above her head and taking satisfaction in the way her joints cracked in appreciation. Glancing at the clock on the wall, she saw that Dr. Carson was a little early for lunch; a habit she'd noticed after starting to work with him. She supposed that he liked to get in early and didn't particularly enjoy eating around other people. She couldn't blame him, though – the mess hall could get rather rowdy from time to time.

She liked Dr. Carson, she decided. He was a quiet man with a frown that seemed to be permanently etched onto his weathered face and often kept to himself unless otherwise necessary, but was somewhat friendly. The man was not exactly nice to her after the incident with the woman's leg, but he had eventually moved past that. Perhaps it was out of respect for the profession, or maybe he was just glad to have a second set of hands, she supposed as she walked over to the sink and poured herself a glass of water. Out of respect, she never asked him about his past other than where he had studied medicine, to which she only gave as much as he did, and never asked anything personal. The two decided to leave that topic of conversation alone permanently and instead focused their energy elsewhere.

Sitting back down, Abigail began to sketch out more templates and winced at the brief, uncomfortable tingle in her leg as she adjusted position in the chair. There was some slight nerve damage since her leg had healed after being shot, and while it was nowhere near enough to cripple her, it often became agitated when using the stairs or lifting heavy objects. She knew that exercise was the only way to cope with the pain, but since their little chat, Negan had been keeping an annoyingly close watch on her.

 _Negan._

The thought of his name alone was enough to make her gut squirm uncomfortably. Placing her pen down, she pinched the bridge of her nose and sunk lower into the chair with a heavy sigh. Abigail had been on edge for days ever since that moment in his room, her hairs standing on the back of her neck every time she'd see him pass by. There was a look in his eyes, one that he seemed to reserve only for her and it was a painful reminder that no matter how much freedom she had within the Sanctuary, that she was still in his domain, under his control, and, more importantly, that she needed to be careful.

In short, it was damn near suffocating at times. Her only respite was the infirmary; the only place where things felt almost… normal again – all things considered. But in here, Abigail was in her element; the sharp sting of antiseptic and the cool balm of the tiled floor eased her mind and, for a brief moment, she would forget where she was – in here, there was no Negan; there was only Abigail.

And that, she realized, was something that he couldn't take away from her.

But no matter how much she tried to lose herself, there was still one thing for certain; Negan wasn't finished with her just yet. However, weeks had now passed since their last encounter so far had made absolutely no intention of following up on her little stunt from the first time they'd met, and she sincerely doubted that he would just let her continue to play doctor without any repercussions whatsoever; she knew that he was the type of man who didn't let a lot of things slide. At this point, it was not a matter of if, but _when_ he would come for her. Abigail needed to be ready, to prepare herself; she needed to know anything and everything about Negan if she had any chance of holding her own against him – in whatever context she would need to. But he was exceedingly difficult to predict, and just as difficult to read.

She couldn't risk getting too close; he'd see straight through her in a heartbeat, and then where would that leave her? There had to be something – _anything –_ that would give her an advantage over him when the time came.

But for now, the best Abigail could do was to just play it safe and do her job. And as much as it pained her to play nice, she would endure until she knew more about Negan and his motives. Other than that, there wasn't much else she could do, and she loathed the knot of helplessness that came with sitting around waiting for something to happen.

* * *

The next morning, Abigail had woken up a little earlier than usual. Glancing at Sherry's bedside clock, she saw that there was still another hour until breakfast, so she stood from her mattress on the floor and walked over to the small bookshelf by the window and scanned the titles, index finger running across the array of differently coloured spines until she finally decided on one whose blurb looked slightly interesting enough to pass the time. Sitting back down on her mattress, Abigail began to read and ended up so enthralled by the story that she'd accidentally missed breakfast.

Reluctant to put the book down, she folded the ear of the page and left the book on her pillow. Careful, as to not wake a sleeping Sherry, Abigail got dressed and headed for the infirmary, intent on continuing on with those patient records. As she crossed the main courtyard, she saw the same barrage of trucks and utility vehicles suddenly enter through the gate. Her gut tingled with excitement at the possibility of new texts or supplies. The watch crew immediately broke into a run as shouts could be heard coming from the gate. Abigail was about to walk over when she was suddenly approached by a short blonde woman with a neck tattoo and a hard expression.

"You Abigail?" she said as she slowed to a stop, breathing heavily.

Abigail's brows furrowed in confusion. "Uh, yeah, why?"

"You're needed in the infirmary," she huffed, tone thick with urgency. "Now."

But before Abigail could ask, the woman promptly turned on her heel and jogged back in the direction of the front gate as the men began stepping out and unloading supplies, and without a moment's hesitation, Abigail broke into a jog and headed straight for the infirmary, her heart racing with excitement. While it may be somewhat cruel to feel excited at the prospect of a possible horrific injury, as both a medically trained yet unqualified professional, it was finally a chance for Abigail to flex her muscles and do what she did best.

Abigail had arrived within the minute, skidding to a halt just shy of the threshold.

"Over here!" she heard Dr. Carson call out from behind the nearest curtain. Abigail marched forward and pulled back the fabric with a shrill clang to reveal him attempting to restrain a younger man with sandy blonde hair whom Abigail immediately recognised.

Tom.

His forehead was slick with sweat and dirt, and his eyes were screwed shut as he writhed atop the cot in agony. His groans were harsh and his breaths were shallow, and on his left shoulder was a frighteningly deep red stain. After a brief moment, Abigail collected herself and quickly moved to the opposite side of the cot, her hands coming up to keep his body still as Dr. Carson finally managed to restrain his other wrist to the side rail.

"Gunshot wound," he informed her as he used a nearby set of scissors to hurriedly cut open his t-shirt. He peeled back the fabric to reveal the extent of the damage. The entrance was clean, but the bullet had no exit wound which meant it was still lodged in his arm. Her own arm briefly tingled at the memory of being shot close to the same place not too long ago, but she quickly pushed those thoughts down as she ignored Tom's laboured breaths.

Without another word, Abigail quickly put on some gloves and gathered the appropriate supplies, including a syringe containing some morphine. Needle in hand, she wheeled the medical tray to Dr. Carson's side.

"This will sting a little," she warned as she poised the needle at the junction of his elbow.

Tom let out a strangled cry as Abigail slowly inserted the needle and let the clear liquid move into his veins. His whole body went tense at the foreign intrusion, but he stayed remarkably still throughout the short process. In a matter of moments, she saw signs of his body beginning to relax, though he still continued to breathe heavily. Once that was done and the needle was discarded, Abigail began prepping the surgical tools.

Abigail then went to hand the scalpel and forceps to Dr. Carson, who shook his head. It took her a moment to realize what he meant, and she quickly offered him a brief nod before taking a deep breath. It had been a long time since she'd been given the chance to lead in a professional environment, and had only ever been granted the opportunity thrice during her medical training. She swallowed thickly and after a moment to gain her composure, Abigail made the first incision to remove the bullet lodged deep in Tom's shoulder.

He cried out, and Abigail gently shushed him as she continued to work. And like a well-rehearsed dance, Dr. Carson handed Abigail each tool as she needed it, wiped away any blood that was obstructing her view, and held out a gloved hand for the bullet as she released for forceps and dropped it into his hand. And all the while, Abigail couldn't contain the swell of pride that burned in her chest. In a matter of minutes since the removal, the wound was thoroughly cleaned and stitched. Abigail began wrapping fresh gauze around the injury while Dr. Carson removed the sullied tools to the decontamination sink.

Dr. Carson then removed his gloves and tossed them into the bin. "I need to step out for a few minutes," he said. "Will you be all right on your own?"

Abigail nodded and watched as he exited the room before turning back to Tom, whom, to her surprise, had remained awake throughout the entire operation. However, his eyes were downcast, deliberately avoiding her gaze. His breathing had calmed down significantly, the morphine having completely made its way into his system.

She pursed her lips; Abigail hadn't spoken to Tom since he had stormed off on her that day. And ever since she returned, she had only seen him for fleeting moments throughout the sanctuary. She tried to get his attention on a few occasions when she had been him in the mess hall, but he ignored her each and every time; obviously still sore that Negan had chosen her instead of him.

Abigail held back a derisive snort. _If only he knew…_

The only people who had known about what had happened that day was herself, Negan, and Sherry – the latter in an absolute state at seeing Abigail return to her room after two days of not knowing if she was alive or dead. His men, however, had thankfully minded their own business regarding the situation, and few only nodded in her direction from time to time since the incident. Sherry had immediately forgiven Abigail for her brief absence after another stern lecture about Negan and his capabilities, but judging by the way Tom was still avoiding her gaze, it was clear that he wasn't quite ready to speak her just yet.

However, that didn't stop her. So, Abigail stood to her feet and walked over to the cupboard and retrieved a cup, a plastic sheet of painkillers and returned to his bedside, intent on getting him to speak to her again. She handed them over, but he made no move to take them. With a sigh, Abigail placed them on the tray table beside him.

"What happened to you?" she asked.

Tom didn't respond.

Abigail frowned. Looking for something to channel her frustration, she went over to the sink and began cleaning the surgical tools with some disinfectant and a rag and placed them in the drying rack.

"They'll help with the pain," she said over the rush of the tap after a beat of silence.

Nothing.

With a huff, Abigail tossed the tools back into the sink with a loud clatter and shut off the tap before turning on her heel.

"Look, I get that you're pissed off at me, but you could be a _little_ more grateful, you know," she bit out coldly as she glared at his downcast expression. "I didn't have to patch up your sorry ass just now, and I certainly—"

"—you were gone."

Abigail stopped. "…What?"

Tom still hadn't lifted his gaze from his lap.

"You were gone," he repeated before finally looking up at her. "I mean, when the trucks pulled up, I was there… I was waiting for you and—" Tom cut himself off with a sigh, letting his head fall into the hand on his uninjured arm.

Abigail's glare dissipated as she walked over to him and pulled up the nearby chair to his cot.

"You were?" she asked softly, slightly taken aback. After the way he'd stormed off on her, she certainly didn't anticipate him waiting for her. "But I thought—"

"—I wanted to apologize," he said suddenly, momentarily shutting his eyes in pain. Quickly, Abigail handed Tom the cup of water and couple of painkillers. He downed them quickly, uncaring as some of the water dribbled down his chin and onto his bare chest.

Tom then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and set the cup in his lap. "I wanted to apologize for how things ended that day," he explained. "I was just… I don't know," he sighed, rubbing his face with his free hand. "I guess I was upset. And then when I saw that you hadn't come back, I just—"

"—but I did come back," Abigail interrupted. "And you still ignored me. Why?"

Tom let a heavy sigh pass by his lips. "I don't know," he replied honestly before turning to look at her. "I mean I saw you around, but I just… I'm sorry."

After a moment of silence, Abigail sighed and reach out to place her hand on his leg. "It's fine," she said. "Don't worry about it. So, how did this happen anyway?"

Tom's troubled expression softened. "Well, we were out on a run, and—" he began before Abigail cut him off.

"—they _picked_ you?" she crowed in astonishment, and Tom shot her a playful glare.

Abigail snickered. "Right, sorry."

"Yeah, they did," he said. "Anyway, we were going to a nearby… area, and things… well, things for out of hand really fast. Next thing I know, I'm on the ground bleeding out."

"Ouch," Abigail grimaced, to which Tom mimicked. "Who shot you?"

"Don't remember," Tom replied. "I thought I was going to die," he added after a brief pause.

Abigail gave his leg a reassuring squeeze.

"Well then, it's lucky you have me here to patch you up."

* * *

 **Well, there it is! I apologize for the lack of Negan, but after what happened in the previous chapter, I thought it best to leave him out for now; I didn't want him to be appearing at every turn since it gets a little boring after a while, you know? Besides, I'm happy with how this one turned out because it shows more than just what's happening between Negan and Abigail, who is slowly becoming a part of the Sanctuary. But fret not, my lovelies; Negan** _ **will**_ **be returning in the next chapter, and he has some** _ **serious**_ **plans for our leading lady!**

 **For now, let me know what you think. Also, be sure to enjoy the Season 8 premiere; I know I will! Be kind to one another and take care.**


	8. Chapter 8

**Fear and Desperation**

Chapter 8

* * *

For the next five days while Tom was recovering in the infirmary, Abigail spent most of her time with him and assisting in his rehabilitation, to which he'd made excellent progress. It was a nice change of pace from her days of counting and sorting, and he had even offered to help her with the new patient record system. She'd politely refused him the first time – simply because he had to rest and recover – but had eventually agreed to let him help, and soon they'd both managed to re-write nearly two-thirds of the Sanctuary's entire population records together by the end of his third day.

On the fourth day, Abigail had brought a deck of playing cards that she'd borrowed from Sherry, and the two were now enjoying a playfully competitive game of poker.

"That's it, I give up!" Tom exclaimed, tossing his cards onto the portable bed-side table and sinking lower into the cot while folding his arms over his chest. "How you manage to win _every single time_ is just ridiculous!"

Abigail smirked. "Don't hate the player, hate the game," she chided smugly as she swiftly collected the scattered cards and began shuffling them once more.

Tom shot her a flat look. "Come off it," he scoffed. "You've won every hand you've dealt, and just when I think I've got the upper hand, you—"

He stopped mid speech as he saw Abigail's grin grow wider and wider, and realization dawned upon him as he finally saw the sparkle of deceit in her dark brown eyes.

"You've been _cheating!"_ Tom exclaimed scandalously after a brief pause, scrambling to sit up straight. Abigail was already laughing at his misfortune, tossing her head back with glee as the confusion in his eyes had given way to clarity.

"It took you _this_ long to notice?"

"I didn't think you would _cheat!"_ he spluttered indignantly, looking almost offended. "I didn't know you could cheat!"

Abigail laughed again as she finished shuffling the cards. "Well, cheating in poker is considerably frowned upon, and not to mention illegal in every casino."

Tom shook his head. "No, I meant _you,"_ he said with an honest chuckle. "Since when do you know how to do that?"

Abigail watched as genuine curiosity had since overtaken the shock realization of her questionable actions, and he shuffled closer to the edge of the bed, clearly eager to learn of how she managed to accomplish such a feat without being caught out. His blue eyes twinkled excitedly, and she smiled.

"A magician never reveals her secrets," she said with a wink, relishing in the impatient half-groan, half-laugh coming from Tom as he fell back onto the bed.

"Aw, come on," he whined, sitting back up, hands in his lap. "You gotta show me how you do it!"

Abigail playfully rolled her eyes in an exaggerating manner before shuffling her chair closer to the edge of his bed. She then grabbed the deck and began shuffling; first at a regular pace, and then a little faster. She then cut the cards once, twice, and then three times – all different ways; sometimes in half, other times in thirds. The entire process only took about twenty seconds at the most, and once she was done, Abigail placed the deck face down on the table in front of him and waited expectantly.

Tom just blinked and looked up at her.

"Take the first card from the top," she instructed, trying hard not to smile too widely.

Doing as he was told, Tom reached forward, picked up the top card and placed it face up on the table next to the deck – the ace of hearts.

Tom looked up at her again, playful scepticism in his eyes. Abigail laughed and motioned for him to take the next card. He did, and placed it face down next to the first card, which turned out to be the ace of clubs.

Again, Tom looked up at her, but this time, he'd caught on to what she'd done. Without having to be told a third time, he hastily grabbed the next two cards and placed it next to the first two, revealing the entire suit of aces.

"No fucking way," he said disbelievingly with a chuckle. "There's no way you did that on purpose."

Abigail laughed incredulously. "You don't believe me?"

"I think you're full of shit," he sneered playfully, screwing his nose up.

Leaning back in her chair and folding her arms over her chest, Abigail took on an air of arrogance and wordlessly motioned for him to repeat her instructions with a smug jut of her chin.

Tom comically raised an eyebrow, and reluctantly took the next card from the top. It was the king of hearts, and he looked just as unimpressed as before, but nonetheless continued. The next was the king of clubs, followed by the king of diamonds and king of spades.

"Lucky shuffle," he commented with a smirk as he tossed the last king onto the table.

"Just keep going, you'll see," she said in a sing-song voice.

Tom narrowed his eyes at her, and Abigail's smile grew wider and his completely fell from his face.

"There's no way."

Abigail let out a sharp laugh as Tom quickly reached forward and grabbed the deck, and began taking the top card and hastily slapping it face up onto the table, one after the other. The next suit revealed was the queens, then the jacks, then the tens, and so on and so forth until he had eventually made his way through the entire deck, revealing both to her and himself that Abigail had managed to shuffle the deck to successfully revert it back to its original order, including order of suit.

After tossing the very last card, the two of spades, onto the table, Abigail watched as Tom sat back in utter disbelief.

"Holy shit," he said after a moment, free hand coming to his forehead. "Holy fucking shit."

"I know, right?" she giggled, reaching over to collect the mess of cards and lazily shuffle them back together as Tom watched on.

"How did you _do_ that?"

"Practise," she chuckled. "And lots of it."

A playful smirk twisted itself onto his lips as his eyes met hers. "That's seriously so cool though! Can you do any magic tricks?"

"Thought you'd never ask," she said as she gave the deck another two cuts and a shuffle before fanning out the deck before him. "Pick a card."

Tom rolled his eyes. "This is the oldest trick in the book," he commented smartly. "I know how it's done; everyone does."

"Ah, while that may be true, you haven't seen how _I_ do it," she said mysteriously before jutting her chin at him. "Go on, pick one."

With another roll of his eyes, Tom picked a random card from the deck and brought it close to his chest – so close, in fact, that he almost went cross-eyed as he looked at it. He stared at it for a moment before looking up at her and pulling the card even closer, if it were possible.

Now it was Abigail's turn to roll her eyes. "Just memorise it and put it back in," she quipped, motioning impatiently with the fanned deck in her hands.

Tom gave the card another once over before sliding it back in the deck, different to where he had first picked it from. Abigail then closed the deck and began shuffling meticulously; cut, then shuffle, two more cuts, bottom to top shuffle, another cut, then top to bottom shuffle, and so on. She continued this process for another minute before breaking the deck in two. And then, with a swift flick of her wrists, the deck disappeared.

It took a second for Tom to realize what had just happened, and he suddenly leaned forward with an audible gasp, hands coming to grab at her wrists.

"No way!" he cried in disbelief, turning her wrists over in his hands before looking up at her. "How did you do that?"

Abigail laughed and reached her left hand behind his ear. With a flick, a single card appeared in her fingers and she brought it into his line of vision.

"Is this your card?"

Tom's eyes went even wider before he snatched the card from her hand. "What the fuck, how did you—wait, where's the deck?"

Sitting back in her chair, Abigail brought her hands in front of her and, just as before, with a swift flick of her wrists, each half of the deck reappeared in her hands. She then fanned the deck again and motioned for him to pick another one.

He did so, and took a quick look at the card before excitedly placing it back within the deck. Abigail then shuffled it three times before pulling the top card and showing it to him.

Tom's excited smile fell. "That's not my card."

Abigail blinked, and then turned the card so it was facing her. "Oh, hang on a sec," she said before giving the card a sharp flick with her fingers. In the blink of an eye, the card instantly changed suit to the correct one.

"Is that better?" she asked with a smirk.

"Holy fuck," he said with a laugh. "That's some serious shit right there," he laughed again, reaching forward to pluck the card from her fingers.

"Like I said, practise," she replied, shuffling the deck lazily. "And lots of it."

Tom adjusted his position in the bed. "When the hell did you decide to learn all of that?"

"I actually started doing that just a few years ago," she answered.

Tom blanched. "Just a _few?"_ He then let out a low, appreciative whistle. "If I was wearing a hat, Abby, I would take it off to you."

Abigail snickered. "I'll be sure to buy you a hat for next time," she winked.

Tom chuckled in return as he settled back into bed with a quiet groan. "So, why card tricks? What made you decide one day that, _'hey, I'm gonna learn how to do some kick-ass card tricks'_?"

Abigail lazily shuffled the deck of cards as she leaned back in the chair. "Stress, mostly," she explained vaguely.

After a brief pause she looked to Tom, who was patiently waiting for her to elaborate. She sighed and placed the cards on the table.

"It was just something I did to help me focus, that's all," she said.

"Does it help?" he asked.

She nodded. "I suppose it does. Got me through med school with my mind still partially intact," she joked.

Tom smiled at her. "Still, that's impressive. So what kind of doctor did you want to be? You know, before all this," he said, his hands gesturing vaguely to everything around them.

"Cardiologist," she said with a hint of pride. "I'd always wanted to be a heart surgeon."

"You ever operated on anyone?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Not on my own, though I did assist on both minor and major surgeries during my student placement. Cut a few things here, sew up the incision – that sort of thing."

Tom shuddered. "Gross. I could never cut someone open, just feels so…" He then made a face and Abigail laughed.

"I'll remember that the next time you get shot," Abigail quipped as she stood and walked over to the sink to grab herself a cup of water.

"Ha-ha," Tom shot back dryly from behind her. "Then who would play poker with you when I'm gone?"

"I'm sure I'll find someone," she smirked as she brought the cup to her lips but falling just shy as the door to the infirmary suddenly opened and Dr. Carson entered the room.

"There's a public address in ten minutes," he explained, eyes moving between them before pausing on Abigail. "Don't be late."

And as quickly as he had appeared, Dr. Carson left the room, and a knot of dread filled the pits of Abigail's stomach – the same unmistakable knot she got every single time anyone mentioned the man in charge. In fact, just a glimpse of that black hair and even blacker-than-black leather jacket caused her stomach to work itself into cold knots.

Not only would she have to be in the same room as him, a public address meant that she had to kneel.

The knot in her stomach now morphed into one of disgust as the memory of her first time kneeling for him replayed in her mind, the memory still so fresh that it made her feel physically sick.

It occurred shortly after she'd returned from being left for dead; she'd been on her way to the mess hall for lunch that day when she spotted him walking in her general direction. By this time, she had yet to cross his path, and so when the people around her began to drop to the ground without so much as a beat of hesitation, Abigail stood there in quiet horror as he came closer, his gaze now fixed firmly on her.

Physically rooted to the spot, Abigail was positively frozen and unable to move, despite the voice in her head screaming at her to do something, but it was to no avail; the fight or flight sensation was setting her nerves ablaze, and before she could make a move, Negan was standing directly in front of her.

All time seemed to come to a devastating standstill; not a single leaf dared to cross their path, and she swore that she heard a few of other Saviours hold their breaths as they witnessed, perhaps for the first time, someone who was apparently refusing to kneel.

Negan's gaze was damn near crushing as Abigail continued to hold his gaze for what seemed like minutes wherein it was only mere seconds. But she refused to cower, despite the fear that made her blood run cold.

… _When I say get on your knees, you'd better do it with some god damned enthusiasm…_

His harsh words from their brief encounter in the infirmary rang loudly in her head until it was a harsh screech that made her ears ring shrilly. Abigail was determined to not let him win, though when the mirth faded from his eyes and was replaced by that same coldness she'd witness during their encounter in the garden shed all those weeks ago, she felt her resolve begin to crumble; and it was only when Negan spoke did she then resign herself.

" _Do not make me have to ask."_

And so, biting back the bile that threatened to rise from her stomach, Abigail slowly crouched to the ground, her fingers digging into the dirt, eyes watering and chin trembling in both fear and rage – fear of what he might do to her if she refused, and rage in how easily she allowed herself to succumb to the pressure – again.

Abigail kept her eyes firmly planted on the dirt beneath his boots as he finally appeared to be satisfied.

" _Atta girl."_

The thought of having to kneel again made Abigail's gut churn uncomfortably, but she knew that there was no other choice – she _had_ to. Disgust rose like bile in her throat as she and Tom left the infirmary and headed towards the main hall, but she kept her chin high and bit it back.

If she were to kneel, then so be it. As much as she hated doing it, if she were to survive in this place, she had to keep on following the rules, and hopefully that would keep her out of Negan's path.

Negan, now that she thought of it, had still kept his distance since then – much to her relief – yet despite this, Abigail couldn't shake the inexplicable feeling that time was running out. Call it instinct, call it paranoia; call it what you will, but Abigail was convinced that something – or some _one_ – was coming for her.

* * *

There was no denying the thrill that came with exercising power; whether it be over people or territory, Negan thoroughly and selfishly relished in every second of it. The feeling was reminiscent of warm honey trickling down your spine and ending with a cool shiver in the depths of your lower gut – if he were to wax poetic about it. But Negan wasn't the type to do such a ridiculous thing, so if he were to be his usually crass self about it, he would say that the rush made his balls tingle.

And he _loved_ that feeling.

Today, for example, would be one of those days. Two nights ago he'd come to the decision to start expanding their territory beyond their current borders after much consideration about their position on the proverbial chess board; his men were strong, well-armed, and more than capable enough to handle anything that they might come across in their new travels.

It wasn't a decision he'd come to lightly, however; Negan had considered expanding for the last two months after a particularly spectacular weapons and ammunitions haul, but had to first expand his people and distribute both them, the supplies and ammunition accordingly. More territory meant that more men and women were required to cement his claim on the newly acquired land, and the subsequent task of assigning those people to scout the new territory and guard the new outposts wasn't a decision he would make lightly, either.

Pen in hand, Negan had spent the better part of the next two days reassigning his people, both within the Sanctuary and at the outposts. Some names were crossed out and shuffled through the old lists while others were added to the new lists labelled _Supply Distribution,_ _Scouting Team C-1_ and _New Outpost_ before rearranging and condensing the delivery of supplies and placement of weapons in order to distribute them to the new outpost once a suitable location was decided _._ After that was done, he'd handed the initial draft to Simon, who later suggested that they run it by the other lieutenants before making the changes absolute.

The latter thankfully took a small portion of the afternoon, and so by approximately three-thirty that day, Negan had ordered Simon to call for a public address in the Sanctuary's main hall at three-forty-five and not a minute later. Another cool rush churned in his lower gut as Negan watched as the people – _his_ people – crowd together on the ground floor, talking animatedly with one another; some appeared fearful while others seemed excited for what their leader was about to address to them.

And as Negan neared the edge of the railing and watched as the room fell silent, each person slowly taking a knee to the ground, that same feeling was amplified as his eyes suddenly locked with a particular set of dark ones that were framed by a head of equally dark brown hair. This was only the second time he'd seen Abigail kneel since she had arrived at the Sanctuary and he let his smirk grow wider at her obvious discomfort and the small lick of defiance that she still dared to show him, yet it was only a sliver compared to the hatred in her eyes the first time she was ordered to kneel.

Negan greedily let his eyes roam over the sea of kneeling bodies before tapping Lucille's head against the steel walkway with a single, sharp crack, signalling for them all to stand. One by one they all stood, eagerly awaiting the words he was about to speak.

"Our prosperity," he began in a loud voice that thrummed throughout the entire hall, "has known no bounds these past few months. We have fought to earn what is ours, and although those achievements are not without loss, we have thrived in a world that is not meant for us anymore."

A chorus of soft agreement hummed around him before he held up his hand, effectively gaining silence once more.

"This new world is not without sacrifice, and we acknowledge those who we have lost as we took this world back from the dead. Our job as Saviours is to keep the peace, to ensure that we keep this world as our own, and to ensure that one day we thrive not as a community, not as a town, but as a fuckin' _city_."

A thunderous applause suddenly erupted, and Negan allowed his people to finish of their own accord before getting to the main point of his speech.

"And in order for that dream to become a reality, I am here to inform you all that we will be expanding our borders as of tomorrow. Those of you involved in weaponry, munitions, scavenging and scouting are to report to your respective lieutenants before dinner as most of you have been permanently reassigned. As for everyone else, tonight's meal is half off!"

Another deafening round of applause echoed throughout the hall and was accompanied by several cheers and cries of joy. Negan then turned on his heel, intent on squeezing in a quick screw before dinner with whoever was up for it – which usually was Tanya or Frankie – though he sincerely hoped for the latter as his mind began replaying images of her tiny yet skilled hands roaming all over his body, bathed in warm oils…

He stifled a groan; four days without the touch of a woman was already wearing him down, though he assured himself that relief was only a short time away as he quickly made his way back to the main compound.

* * *

Abigail, currently down in the depths of the still-cheering crowd, stood with her arms crossed over her chest and refused to clap as Negan had departed from the upper level. Tom, on the other hand, was much more enthusiastic; giving a few loud cheers and even a high-five to the guy who had been standing next to him at the time.

"Did you hear _that?"_ Tom suddenly cried out, hand coming to grip her shoulder, blue eyes alight as he smiled at her. "Half-off food!"

Abigail managed a weak smile at Tom's sheer excitement of Negan's offer, and quickly made her way through the crowd as Tom continued to stay celebrate with the others.

The afternoon sun was warm on her back as she exited the hall, grateful to be out of the strangling confines of the crowd and was intent on showering and maybe even a little reading before dinner. But as she walked up the stairs and back to her room, a frown creased over her features.

 _How… strange,_ Abigail mused thoughtfully as she reflected on Negan's generous offer – the _last_ person on the planet she would ever consider to be even remotely generous, let alone nice. Negan, as she knew him, was cruel, cold, and heartless – but today, she'd witnessed no such emotion cross his features; instead, she had only seen appreciation, and even a little arrogance, but that was it – because no matter how she looked at it, no matter how much she analysed his words and the expression on his face as he said them, that's just what is was: a nice gesture.

And it left a bad taste in Abigail's mouth. Despite his apparent sincerity, of which she was still very much sceptical of, she still didn't trust him – not by a long shot. However, his people clearly appreciated him and even trusted him to a certain extent, that much she couldn't deny – and while she was thankful that some of her points would live to see another day, it certainly wasn't enough to win her over.

* * *

Negan groaned at the sound of a sharp knock at the door. Cracking one eye open, he glanced at the door in annoyance, trying to figure out just who in the hell had enough balls to come knowing during his time with one of his wives. A very naked Frankie was currently on her knees, languidly working both her mouth and hands on the throbbing erection between his legs. She dutifully ignored the knock, much to his delight, but when the knock repeated itself, more insistent than before, Negan sighed gave her a quick tap on the shoulder, signalling for her to stand.

The redhead stood and wiped her mouth with the back of her mouth, looking at Negan expectantly.

"Wait here," he said gruffly, hitching up his pants and rebuckling his belt.

 _Whoever is on the other side of that door better have a damn good reason for interrupting me._

Lucille in hand, Negan opened the door to see Simon standing on the other side.

"We got a problem."

* * *

 **I hope you all enjoyed this chapter, because I actually had a lot of fun writing it – and I'm also surprised at how many words I managed to get out in just two short days! Anyway, what do we all think of Abigail and Tom so far? Do you think Tom is a good buy or a bad guy? Also, first interaction with Negan and a wife! What did you guys think?**

 **Before I leave, can I just say, HOW EFFING HEARTBREAKING THE MID-SEASON FINALE WAS?!**

 ***cries***

 **Anyway, leave a review with your thoughts and, as always, be kind to one another!**


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